


Masks V 2.0

by LJMouse



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 56,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LJMouse/pseuds/LJMouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Revenge of the Fallen, Giant Alien Robots are no longer a secret. Humanity is now aware of their presence, and our heroes -- human and Cybertronian both -- must deal with the fallout as best they can. </p><p>Cybertron is a dying world, Cybertronians an endangered race, and Earth represents the best chance they have to survive. More Cybertronians are arriving on Earth, as well as other alien species. Some threaten Earth's very existence. Can the surviving Autobots and Decepticons pull together and save their people -- and Earth -- from annihilation and extinction? </p><p>Diverges from canon after Revenge of the Fallen, and has a heavy G1 influence. There are quite a few OCs, but only where I couldn't find a canon character to fill the role I needed. </p><p>This story is also known as the one shot, "Whatever Happened to Wheelie?" that Just. Would. Not. Die. It is an old story I'm resurrecting and rewriting and, unless I die of old age first (because it's over a million words and still incomplete) ... I will finish it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So, Masks. 
> 
> Err, yeah. I guess I should try to finish this. It’s only been about six years since I started it.
> 
> When I began Masks, I was new to the fandom and to Transformers. I did not know the characters as well as I should have. The whole story started as a simple one-shot about Wheelie (who simply disappeared halfway through the show) and that one-shot just kept going and going and going .... Apparently, the plot bunny was powered by Energizer batteries.
> 
> I was also in a very different place in my life then than I am now. Life, fortunately, goes on. Now, after all these years, I finally have time and energy to return to Masks and begin reworking it. 
> 
> Wow! does the original version need work. It has several major issues that I need to address:
> 
> \-- I had only a basic working knowledge of Transformers when I began Masks. Therefore, I’ll be retconning some of the terms, assumptions and concepts I used and abused throughout the story.  
> \-- It was written freeform, and there are many, many plot inconsistencies, ranging from Fang’s ever-changing height to characters in more than once place at a time.  
> \-- I think I’m going to change the fates of a few of the Decepticons, just because they’re so interesting. I didn’t realize how interesting they were as characters, because I was new to the fandom.  
> \-- There’s a few side plots I am going to trim, because they seemed like a good idea at the time but they turned out to be dead ends. 
> 
> You will probably recognize long passages from the original story, but I will be editing them, and adding new scenes (and likely deleting many scenes.)
> 
> So, without further ado, this is Masks 2.0.

Fangface was a survivor. He was proud of that fact. Others might have called his ability to survive a sign of his cowardice but Fangface privately disagreed. He was a survivor because he was too damn smart to follow stupid orders to his death if he could modify them to allow his survival. 

 

Egypt? Stupid orders, all around.

 

The big predacon flattened himself out behind a crumbling mud brick wall as a deuce and half full of human soldiers trundled by. After they were gone, he painfully picked himself back up again. He was limping and leaking and his HUD alive with error messages, but he ignored his own issues in favor of concern for the mangled remains of the smaller cybercat in his arms. 

 

“Bee really did a number on you, didn’t he?” He informed his unconscious and very badly damaged burden. “Wish you were awake so you could call your master. But that would make life just too easy, wouldn’t it? My life is  never  easy.” 

 

Really, if he was a proper Decepticon, he wouldn’t have been worried about the symbiont. Ravage wasn’t one of his soldiers. Point of fact, Ravage was quantum bound to Soundwave, who scared the electrons right out of Fang’s circuits.

 

If anyone had asked, Fang would have told them that he was saving Ravage solely so that the symbiont could call in a pickup from his boss for both of them. 

 

Fang, limping heavily, headed for a distant line of limestone cliffs. A damaged cooling pump whined loudly in his chassis, and he cringed at the sound it made. Detection meant death. He was tempted to leave Ravage behind ... but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did. Besides, the little cybercat was his best option for rescue.

 

He was several times larger than Ravage, but nonetheless he struggled to carry the shattered remains of the symbiont. Fang’s hydraulics were compromised. He’d been too close to an exploding mortar, and both the blast wave and shrapnel had done considerable damage. 

 

“C’mon, kitty, hang in there,” Fang muttered, as he picked his way cautiously -- and painfully -- through the growing twilight. It wasn’t clear, even to Fangface, if the ‘kitty’ he referred to was the unconscious symbiont slung over his shoulder or encouragement to himself. He was many times Ravage’s size, but they did share certain design elements ...

 

He needed to get to cover. Discovery meant death.  The other ‘cons had fled or died. The only people left alive on the battlefield were enemies. None would have mercy on a lone Decepticon. Additionally, while the humans were just likely to kill him just on general principles, Optimus's team had a personal grudge with him that they'd so far failed to satisfy. He intended to see that they never did.   


 

Ahead, there was a low line of cliffs, and leading into the cliffs, a slot canyon. Under the cover of the growing dusk, Fang headed in that direction, then stopped short and narrowed his optics at a line of Cybertronian footprints in the sand. He was motionless for several minutes, crouched in a depression, while he extended his passive sensors to their full range. 

 

The tracks were hours old. No Cybertronians seemed to remain in the area. His sensitive sensor suite detected no sounds but the chirp of crickets, no scent but sand and slight moisture from a far-distant river, no electromagnetic fields other than communications channels that humans utilized. He could see well into the infrared spectrum, but there were no unexpected heat sources.

 

No Cybertronian on the planet currently had the ability to avoid detection from Fang’s robust senses. He was, likely, alone. 

 

Slowly, he proceeded to the cover promised by the cliffs.

 

There, he discovered the tracks led into a small -- by Cybertronian standards -- ruin of a stone structure. 

 

He stopped, again scanning for life. He detected nothing larger than tiny rodents. 

 

The structure was dubious shelter. While the thick sandstone walls would disguise his EM signature from search parties, his enemies would be likely to personally inspect it out for exactly that reason. For a moment, he dithered. Then he decided using it for temporary cover was better than staying out in the open. 

 

Inside, the floor was flat and covered in a thin layer of drifting sand. Ancient human art decorated the walls; Fang would never admit it to anyone, but he found the colorful figures to have a certain primitive appeal. Recent vandalism marred one panel; a hole had been busted clean through it. 

 

He shook his head at the damage, and lowered Ravage’s ruined frame to the ground. Fangface then knelt beside the smaller Cybertronian. Bumblebee had shredded the symbiont to the point where he was barely recognizable as a mech. That damage would have killed many mecha, but the little symbiont’s frame had been designed by Soundwave. Soundwave valued his minions, and had built in many redundant systems.  


 

Fang pulled a med kit from his subspace, and opened it up. His subspace was not large, and he didn’t have the power to shift around a ton of mass. (Subspace fields were convenient for holding things. However, you still had to deal with the inertia created by the contents, even if gravity no longer affected them.) Due to his own small mass and lack of power, his med kit was therefore limited in size. It mostly contained parts for Fang himself, and for his own team.

 

Fortunately, Fang’s teams of small scouts, infiltrators, assassins, spies, and saboteurs included some that were the same frametype as Ravage. He didn’t carry the parts to fix a seeker or a gestalt, and he couldn't do much more than stop the leaks and rewire severed neural lines, but that would be enough to serve his purpose. He had what he needed to get Ravage stable and conscious. Soundwave could fully repair his own slagging minion in the security of the Nemesis later.  


 

He pried off several pieces of crumpled armor, exposing the symbiont’s internals. His spark chamber, memory core, and processor core were intact. The biggest issue that could quickly offline Ravage was that his powerplant wasn’t working. That meant that the symbiont was deeply in stasis lock, and his spark containment field was being powered by batteries. 

 

Fang frowned, sat down cross legged on the ground, and pulled the smaller mech’s frame into his lap. He couldn’t do a thing to replace Ravage’s missing limbs (Bee had yanked his pelvic girdle clean off, and both back legs with it), but he could create a temporary connection from Ravage’s processor core to the power plant. That would restore power to the mech’s spark containment field, as well as to his mind.

 

The work did, indeed, take hours. The sky was growing light again when he soldered the last temporary neural line into place. Fang then laid Ravage out flat, hooked a connector from his wrist to the dataport at the base of Ravage’s skull, and initiated the boot sequence.

 

Ravage had a fairly simplistic processor. He wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t exactly a genius, either. Because of this, he rebooted with lightning speed. Had he been able to move, the small cybercat would have come up fighting.

 

:GET OUT!:  Ravage screeched at Fang’s presence, before Fang even had time to physically disconnect his data cord.   


 

“Certainly.” Fang beat a hasty exit. Ravage had formidable firewalls, courtesy of his unholy alliance with his master, so Fang hadn’t been able to get more than a basic medical access to Ravage’s autonomic systems. Even if he  had  been able to hack the other mech, he would have refrained -- and if anyone had asked, he would have claimed that fear of Soundwave was the only reason. That wasn’t the whole truth, but it served his purposes to pass as a coward. 

 

Ravage’s optics lit. Gruffly, the cybercat said with a short range comm transmission,  :Stay out of my head. You won’t like what you find in it.:

 

:Heh. I can imagine.:

 

:No, you really can’t. Why can’t I move?:

 

:Because Bumblebee ripped your frame apart.:

 

:Oh.:  Ravage considered that.  :Soundwave says he’ll be here in about two hours. He wants a situation report.:

 

:Tell him to make it fast. This isn’t a secure location.:

 

:Skywarp’s down for repairs. He’ll pick us up as soon as Hook releases him.:

 

:None of the other seekers are free?:

 

:Starscream’s busy with Megatron, and the rest are in worse shape that ‘Warp.:

 

:Gotcha.:

 

:Soundwave thanks you.:

 

At that expression of unwanted thanks, Fangface, barely, kept from expressing his disdain for Soundwave in profane terms. Soundwave's gratitude might be useful, but Fang personally thought that the Megatron’s telepathic communications officer was a creeper of the worst sort who, as an extra special bonus, took his design cues from the Quintessons -- Cybertron’s worst galactic enemies. He simply said, “Tell your boss that he can express his gratitude by keeping his tentacles away from my scouts. I’m still picking up the pieces for the last one he hacked.” 

 

:Scurry was ... potentially useful.: At least Ravage acknowledged the incident that Fang was referring to. 

 

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t  potentially  useful to me. He  was  my best analyst. He said  no when your boss approached him. Soundwave had no right to touch him. He ever does that again, I’ll  feed  him his tentacles. And you can tell him I said that.”

 

:Threatening Soundwave is unwise.:

 

“Head hunting among  my  people is  just  as unwise.” Fang bit off an explosive sigh, and rose. That coolant pump protested the change in position with a noisy whine, and his hydraulic fluid reservoir gave him several red alerts on his HUD. His leaks had mostly auto-repaired, but not before he’d run nearly dry.

 

:My boss is a good master.:

 

“Keep telling yourself that, kid.” Fangface stared down at the battered cybercat frame. It was a shame that Ravage was loyal to Soundwave. Fang didn’t think a ‘good master’ would have allowed Ravage to fight in the last battle. The cat was certainly an effective infiltrator, but he’d been sent out in the role of a front line fighter. It showed how desperate (and crazy) Megatron was, and how loyal Soundwave still remained to Megatron despite everything.  


 

Fang, with another shake of his head, moved away from Ravage. He needed to stop talking to the cat before he said something he would truly regret. Soundwave was already well aware of Fang’s opinion of him; Soundwave was a telepath and couldn’t possibly miss it. However, it had been a long time since they’d been face to face. Some things had changed, and he didn’t want to inadvertently blurt out something damning to Soundwave’s dog. 

 

Restlessly, he explored the cavern. The Autobots had damaged the panel of ancient art.  _Vandalism_ , he thought again. However, in a cavity visible behind it ... there was a hand. He saw motionless metallic fingers.  


 

Morbidly curious, Fang padded closer. The hand was Cybertronian, and enormous. When he wriggled through the small hole, and then squeezed under the fingers of the long-dead frame, he discovered that the mech it belonged to could have dwarfed Megatron. Beyond that mech, there were others. Five, total. All truly ancient, all long dead.

 

Fangface snorted. “Autobots must have been in a hurry. It’s not like them to leave this many spare parts behind.”

 

Come to think of it, Scurry’s new -- much larger -- frame was nearly done, but he hadn’t been able to find a few components for it. Scurry was justifiably terrified of Soundwave, and had begged Fang to create him a larger frame. Soundwave didn't, as a general rule, enslave big mechs, just little ones. Fang, who was fond of his best analyst, was willing enough to oblige with Scurry's demands. He liked to work with his hands when he had free time, and in his most optimistic moments, he dreamed of a life as a frame designer rather than Megatron’s favorite assassin and saboteur.  


 

He would tell Hook about this cache (and earn a few useful brownie points in the process), and hopefully, the Decepticons could then claim the bodies before the Autobots came back. Hook would claim every last metal shaving and grease smear from the salvage if he could, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him ... Fang could just say that the Autobots had taken the missing parts.   


 

Fangface eyed the ancient mechs -- there were seven of them, total -- and then selected the one closest to the door. Despite his injuries, Fang was still fairly nimble. He ignored the pain -- he’d learned to ignore pain a long time ago -- and compensated for his damaged hydraulics. Skillfully, he scrambled up the mech’s chassis to his anterior thoracic plating. Scurry still needed a t-cog, among other critical parts, and Fang accessed the dead mech’s chest cavity by the simple expedient of digging his back claws into the armor plating and ripping it off. 

 

His hydraulics complained with a grinding whine. He ignored that; he already knew that pump would need to be entirely replaced. See: Brownie points with Hook. The med bay staff hated working on Fang, and tried to weasel out of it whenever possible. Fang's design was a prototype, and his repairs often required machining unique parts. That was, of course, extra work. Brownie points with Hook _always_ came in handy. 

 

The plate clattered to the floor with a bang and a prolonged rattle that echoed off the walls. He froze, half afraid he’d alerted someone to his presence, but the only other living being around was Ravage. 

 

:What are you doing?:

 

:Exploring.:  It wasn’t, strictly, a lie. He was just exploring  inside  the body of a mech who’d died long before Fang had been born! Fang had no desire for Soundwave to know more about his business than was strictly necessary. Also, Soundwave had just as much use for Hook's good regard as Fang did. He'd prefer if Soundwave didn't know about the ancient mausoleum of giant-sized dead mecha lurking just the other side of a thin stone wall.   


 

Much to his surprise, a soft glow emanated from inside the mech’s chest. Fang, for a spark-freezing moment, feared he’d been dismembering a living mech. While Fang was as cheerfully, morbidly, opportunistic as any other ‘con geek who needed parts for his projects, he was  not  Lockdown, slaggitall! The only salvage he took was from mechs who had no more need for their parts!

 

The glow was not coming from biolights or, worse, a spark chamber. There was a small ... device ... tucked next to the cold, empty, spark chamber. 

 

Fang stared at it in absolute disbelief for several moments. He was terribly afraid, and terribly excited, at what he knew he’d found. 

 

“...  Prime .” Fangface breathed. “Oh, Primus help me, you were a Prime, old fellow. What did you do to end up here, lost and unmourned?” 

 

Reverently, he reached out to touch the Matrix. Legend had it that it that those who were unworthy could not grasp a Matrix. Therefore, he fully expected it to do ... something ... perhaps dissolve into dust, or phase out of existence, or simply move aside. Or burn him, maybe, but he was curious enough to risk that chance. 

 

None of the above happened. The Matrix was warm in his hands. He grasped it tightly, and pulled it from the ancient one’s chest. Then, bemused, he slid to the ground. If he gave this Matrix to Megatron, he’d likely earn  considerable  favor, particularly since Megsie had  just  lost one to Optimus. However ...  no , that damnable conscience of his reared up.

 

He couldn’t. Not and be able to live with himself later. Fang’s conscience was often battered and abused, but he made a point of not doing anything he couldn’t either live with, or make amends for later. It was one of his personal coping tactics. 

 

This artifact was too powerful, too dangerous, and Megatron far too unstable. Fang huffed an aggravated sigh and moved to subspace it. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with it ... perhaps just carry it around in his subspace until the Universe died a cold entropic death, for lack of any other good plan. 

 

Maybe ... maybe he could figure out how to access some of the information on it. He’d need to wait for the end of the war, or people would be suspicious, but the information was valuable and needed to be preserved. 

 

The Matrix abruptly dissolved to sand in his hands. Fang swore. Apparently, the touch-me-not feature had a delayed response time. 

 

The Matrix ... flowed over his hands, up his arms, and then with a rush of static electricity and smooth warm sand, disappeared under his armor and infiltrated his chassis before he could even react. Fang froze, as he felt something far older, far more powerful, and irresistible, connect to his processor core. It was as if he’d suddenly been given a second memory core, not his own, but just as easily and instinctively accessible.

 

Power  surged through his frame. His damage healed, instantly. He knew, without even testing it, that he was faster, stronger, more agile. He was  smarter , even though he’d always been intelligent.

 

:Well, well, well,:  a voice, warm and resonant, rippled through his mind.  :You’ll do nicely, Decepticon Prime. You are  just  what we were looking for.:

 

:What?!:

 

He was no Prime. Impossible. He was nobody’s hero. He was  nobody , if he was perfectly honest with himself. 

 

:We do not need heroic. We need pragmatic.: 

 

:But ...:

 

His half-formed protest died as the presence disappeared.

 

Fangface scratched at a long tooth with one claw. “Huh,” he finally said, aloud. “So what do I do  now ?”

 

 

He glanced up at the dead Primes. Now, with the knowledge of the Matrix, he knew they were  _all_ Primes. There were six of them, total.  

 

_Get Ravage away from here_. That was the first step. Decepticon Command could not know there were more Matrixes.

 

His pragmatic nature surfaced. He eyed the body of a mech once known as Vermillion Prime with speculation. Scurry still needed that t-cog ... and yes, he had time. He'd meet Soundwave away from here, but a bit of strategic salvage first wouldn't hurt anything. Would it?

 

* * *

 

No one, not even Bumblebee, remembered about the contents of the metal ammunition case in 'Bee's's subspace for several hectic days following the attempt by Decepticons to destroy the world.

 

There was just so much to do. While most of the major Decepticons involved in the battle had been killed or fled, the battlefield had been full of surviving minicons, assorted primitives, and hundreds of drones. All needed to be dealt with, and that had taken days. Bee wasn’t convinced they’d gotten them all -- Skywarp had been sighted at the edge of the combat area, carrying what appeared to be the slagged remains of Ravage plus an unidentified larger predacon. The seeker had warped out before anyone could get a shot off at him. The humans who’d seen the trio had only been able to say that the predacon was the size of a horse, silver in color, and  he resembled an earth feline.

 

That description was vague enough that it could be any one of couple dozen large predacons. Bumblebee somewhat hoped that it was the most obvious one, though Fangface was hard to pin down. He’d  love  to get his hands on Fangface. The little toothy traitor was on his short list of mecha that needed an express ticket to the Pit. As far as Bee was concerned, there was a special place in Unicron’s tender embrace for turncoats. 

 

As far as the smaller symbiont went, Bee wasn’t sure if he’d killed Ravage or not. He’d shredded him, certainly, but most of the dismembered parts had been missing when he’d returned later to make sure the symbiont’s spark was extinguished. Bee had grumbled that spawn of Unicron had more lives than an Earth cat, and refused to count him as a kill. It wasn’t the first time somebody had thought they’d killed one of Soundwave’s minions only to be proven emphatically wrong. 

 

After mopping up the battlefield, they’d retreated to an aircraft carrier. There, things were just as busy, though the “busy” was more bureaucratic in nature. Since they were Autobots, and not Decepticons, this meant that he could let his guard down a little. Autobot and human bureaucracy was less likely to devolve into confrontations involving weapons, Ironhide aside. (Bumblebee understood the same was not true of Decepticon politics.)

 

There were debriefings, Autobot meetings, Autobot meetings with Sam, soldier-plus-Autobot meetings, and meetings with the soldiers and Sam, and all of this took place amid a series of badly needed repairs for all the 'bots. He'd personally taken quite a bit of damage and when Ratchet summoned him to the makeshift med bay tent on deck, his own repairs took several hours. At least Ratchet also managed to cobble together a new fix to his badly damaged voice box using a jury-rigged human made sound system.

 

Sam probably hadn't slept much for days before the final fire fight, and he certainly hadn’t had time to do more than catnap afterwards. Those naps had been interrupted by nightmares. Therefore, after Bee got Ratchet's all clear to return to duty, he was dismayed to discover that Sam was  still  up and on his feet. 

 

Sam and Optimus were out on the deck, in the dark, having some sort of discussion with some sort of general with lots of braids on his shoulders. Bee didn't know him. Bee didn't care. Bee wouldn't have cared if the man was the president himself, at this point. A quick scan of the young man’s vitals told him Sam was at the limit of his endurance. He needed a long recharge, and Bumblebee was now on a mission to make sure he got it.

 

Sam clutched a coffee cup in one hand, and looked like death warmed over. Enough time had passed since the battle that the bruises on his face and arms had changed in color from livid blues and purples to yellows and greens. The scrapes were healing. However, he certainly still hurt. The boy was also visibly swaying on his feet - literally weaving back and forth, and as Bee saw as he walked across the metal flight deck. He purposefully made lots of noise, yet Sam barely looked up and only gave him the faintest ghost of a smile of greeting. 

 

Bee gave Optimus a look of reproach, wrapped a hand around Sam's shoulders, and addressed both the high-ranking human officer (whoever the hell he was) and Optimus with a firm, "Sam needs some sleep."

 

Optimus blinked his optics a couple of times and ran a hand over his face in a gesture that he'd certainly deliberately copied from humans. Optimus said, "Bee has a point. I believe Sam should rest. Shall we continue this tomorrow?"

 

Bee, after a quick look at his leader, realized Optimus needed a recharge just about as much as Sam did, as well as some major repairs. Ratchet had capped off severed neural lines and plugged the obvious leaks, but Optimus had not had any more repairs than the most basic stopgap measures. Bumblebee said firmly, "If you don’t see Ratchet soon, Big Boss, he’s going to come looking for you."

 

Optimus looked like he wanted to decline the suggestion. Bee, who had known Optimus for almost as long as he'd been alive - which was a good bit longer than human civilization had existed - met his leader's eyes with a silent look. He knew, without intervention, Optimus would keep going until he physically couldn't, and Ratchet had to carry the boss bot to the tent. He also knew they needed Optimus in good working order ASAP, both mentally and physically fit. Megatron was still out there somewhere. 

 

They both blinked their optic shutters simultaneously, and Optimus allowed, "I do need repairs and I believe everyone else is done. General Heinz, we can continue this discussion tomorrow ..."

 

Bee sagged in place with relief.

 

"I still had a few more questions, if you wouldn't mind. We can wrap this up after that," Heinz cut Optimus off. The general didn't sound like a man used to being argued with, and he was apparently not afraid of robots. Bee also suspected that the general was reasonably well rested. He’d arrived by helicopter from Cairo just this afternoon.

 

Bee wasn't any more afraid of generals than he was of Mrs. Witwicky's annoying toy dogs. Also, in his experience, when it came to the military and the Autobots, "a few questions" was generally "a few hundred questions" and would take hours. He searched through his music files and came up with an appropriately pithy clip, "Beat it, just beat it ..."

 

The general went first white, then red. Before he could protest, however, Bumblebee firmly but gently steered Sam several feet away from the officer. Then he transformed, popped open the passenger side door, and was gratified when Sam tumbled into the seat without complaint and with only a mumbled, "Thanks, Bee ..." Sam was asleep before Bee could even tint the windows all the way dark. He was, Bumblebee judged, probably too tired for further nightmares. 

 

Due to his concern for both Sam and Prime, Bee never did think about the metal case, and its contents, in his trunk. The contents remained silent. Additionally, he had hours of auto-repair sequences to run through before he could take time to recharge. Ratchet had fixed the worst of his damage, but he had myriad damaged lesser circuits and relays to route around, plus quite a few dents and dings that needed to be healed. Long experience on the battlefield had taught him monitor his auto-repair’s progress first, rest later, no matter how tempting several hours of dreaming was. He could, if forced, fight sleepy. Fighting while broken was harder.

 

Much to his frustration an hour later, his nanytes created a patch to a damaged thoracic dermal sensory wire which  conflicted with the damned voicebox, rendering him mute again ... he was still running diagnostics and seeking a work-around on that when Optimus announced they were moving out the next morning. 

 

His Cybertronian systems didn't want to play nice with earth technology, and were throwing up errors and refusing to talk to the voice box's chip. They were claiming the output voltage was wrong, and he just couldn't puzzle out a solution to the problem. He thought the voice box might be about to crap out again completely.

 

He finally got his recharge on the plane, and never did get his slagging voice working. 

 

The next few days were occupied by getting home - while they had taken a direct flight to Egypt, the trip back was longer and far more tedious, with multiple stops at multiple military bases. Along the way, there were press conferences. The cat named Giant Alien Robots was well and truly out of the bag, and somewhat to Bee's surprise, someone very high up the chain of command in the military authorized Optimus and Sam to talk to the media. Indeed, they were being encouraged. Bumblebee got the distinct impression that this was called "damage control" - since they couldn't hide the existence of the robots anymore, at least they could let Optimus be charismatic and dramatic in public. Given that Optimus's charisma and sense of drama knew no bounds, and given the human love for such theatrics, Bumblebee figured it was a reasonably workable plan. It certainly appealed to Bee himself more than hiding in a tiny garage. 

 

That didn't mean he wanted anything to do with the press himself. Bee's malfunctioning voicebox gave him a perfect and very welcome excuse to avoid the media. While he was more than glad to drop the “in disguise” part of being a Giant Alien Robot, he still preferred to remain low profile. Or, at least as low profile as a large yellow robot that turned into a Camaro could manage. 

 

Sam returned after one of those interviews with the press with a brand new laptop computer in his hands. He flung himself into onto a jump seat beside Bumblebee in the cargo plane that was their ride home and grumbled, "The President wants Optimus to have a Facebook page. And a Twitter account. And there was something about Youtube ... Optimus suggested that I design our social media pages."

 

"I do have several methods of accessing the internet, and I can assist you, Sam," Bee pointed out because Sam sounded frazzled, and Optimus had been pushing him hard all day. All the Autobots had both internal cellular and wireless modems. 

 

Optimus could certainly figure out the very crude programming languages that the humans used in one human heartbeat. However, dealing with human computers took time and patience as transmission and processing speeds were very painfully slow. Also, Optimus had never met a bold color, flashy icon, or flame-shaped clip art that he didn’t like. Ratchet’s theory was that Optimus spent most of his life repressing his natural creativity and artistic flair in favor of grave dignity and profound wisdom. Point him at anything remotely resembling art (including graphic design) and the results were ... colorful. See: Prime’s paint job.

 

Having  Optimus  design the social media pages was probably a bad idea.  


 

Sam was a logical choice to do it, except that he was so slagging  busy  already.

 

On the other hand, Bumblebee generally had lots of free time. His primary duty was taking care of Sam. It wouldn't stress his processors at all to guard Sam _and_ build pages.

 

Sam had given him a startled look in reaction to his words. It was a measure of how tired Sam was, however, that his response came slowly. "Hey, you fixed your speech synthesizer. Cool."

 

It had been fixed for about twelve hours, but the men with the cameras didn't need to know that. As far as anyone human and official knew, he was still mute. Bumblebee shrugged. He'd finally found the source of the glitch, with a little help from Ratchet and Arcee. He could talk for now, at least until the next time the damned human technology fritz out.

 

"You know how to design web pages ...?" Sam trailed off, stared at him, then slapped himself in the forehead. "Of course you do. You're probably loads better at it than I am, given the amount of time I know you spend online. Have at it, Bee. This project's all yours."

 

And so Bumblebee spent the next several hours getting the Autobots an online presence. It was less of a surreal exercise than one would expect; he and Optimus and the others had been together so long that this was not the first time they'd made contact with an alien race.

 

Despite extensive galactic experience, humans were quickly becoming one of Bee’s most favorite species. Emotionally and intellectually, they were so much like Autobots it was sometimes unnerving. For other races, however, he had handled PR before. Not the public speaking part, thank you very much, because that was Optimus's job and Optimus could keep it, but the behind-the-scenes make-it-all-run-smoothly parts. Those parts, he was good at. Humans, compared to, say, Nebulans, were  easy  to understand and create media for. Human minds were not as alien as their vastly different biology would imply.

 

While he was working on the pages, he also got the contact information for the various media outlets from Optimus, and made sure to pass his e-mail address on to them. Optimus was too busy to be checking his gmail ten times a day. Bumblebee, entrusted with Sam-watching, generally had lots of free time.

 

Working on the social media sites kept him busy, and so he did not think about the metal ammo case he was carrying around in his storage. If asked where the contents had ended up he would have responded with a puzzled and fuzzy, "Did we leave him in Egypt?" He had a vague memory of Mikaela tossing something in his trunk after that last firefight but he hadn't entirely been sure what it was. His circuits had been thoroughly rattled and his processor had not been firing on all cylinders. Since then, he had been too busy to get curious about it.

 

They arrived back in the United States early in the morning, seven days after they'd saved the world. There was, inevitably, another press conference. Optimus was charismatic, Sam was tired, the soldiers were soldierly. Bumblebee kept his vocalizer off, nobody asked him any questions, and he was content with that.

 

After that, they had a memorial to plan, for Jetfire, and human funerals to attend. The Autobots paid their respects by video links to the human funerals to avoid a media frenzy, but they did make a point of honoring all of the dead. After they'd done that, they interred the ancient Seeker  in his final resting place. At that funeral, out of respect for Jetfire, Optimus only allowed one human camera operator - but he did allow, and even insist, on a single reporter.

 

"Ironhide," Optimus had said, when Ironhide had tried to object to the presence of the reporter, singular, "I would prefer privacy too, but if the humans see that we mourn our dead as they do, it will help them see us as people and not mere alien machines. Additionally, I believe that humanity has a right to pay their respects to him as well, as he has saved their very world. I think Jetfire would not mind the reporter."

 

Bumblebee personally suspected that Jetfire's resting place might someday become a shrine. Certainly, as the story of what happened in Egypt became known to the whole world, there were already humans who were acknowledging his sacrifice. For now, however, the crypt was on military land, and they were deliberately restricting access to prevent ... drama. 

 

Every TV channel in the world carried the feed of the funeral. A picture of Optimus, on one knee beside the tomb, head bowed, made the front page of most major news magazines.

 

And after that was done, finally, at last, Bumblebee could actually rest. Only when he finally, finally, could stop working did he have time to think, and when he could think, Bee realized just how badly his spark hurt. He mourned, for the fallen soldiers and for Jetfire, but only after all critical (plus a huge amount of non-critical but urgent) work was done and he had a moment to actually sit down and think did it all hit him. 

 

Friends had died. Optimus had died, and Sam had brought him back. And Sam had died. And then Sam had come back, which was every bit as remarkable.

 

This beautiful world had nearly been destroyed, the sun gone. Humans - his humans - had nearly died a cold, miserable, agonizing death on a sunless Earth. Oh, they might have been able to save their friends, in the short term, but humans were so frail. Could humans survive the hard radiation of the void between stars, even with tons of shielding? He wasn't sure. Perhaps if they had decades to prepare a ship, and life support systems, and to select a group of humans who mentally and physically could withstand the rigors. If the Fallen had succeeded, they would have only had days, not years. The entire race might have been destroyed.

 

He liked humans. He had, from the moment he'd heard their music and their laughter, and had realized they'd found a kindred species. They'd come so close to losing the entire race - not just his humans, but all humans.

 

Suddenly, Bumblebee couldn't stay in the hanger even one second longer. He transformed and rolled out, not entirely sure where he was headed at first. However, they'd buried Jetfire on a peaceful riverbank on base land, and it was there that Bumblebee found himself driving.

 

"Hey, old timer," he said aloud, to the tomb, because his voice box was working for the moment, "how's it going?"

 

It was a stupid, inane thing to say, but Jetfire wasn't exactly going to respond back with snark, so Bee parked beside the grave. There had not been much left after Optimus had borrowed Jetfire's parts and then they'd further stripped him of classified bits - just a chassis and some random pieces of silvery metal. Those remains were interred in a deep concrete crypt. The top of the crypt had both the Decepticon and Autobot emblems etched in it, plus a stylized line drawing of Earth, and a single word in the Autobot language that roughly translated to With Honor.

 

He sat there alone, or so he thought, for a good hour. He needed the peace and quiet to think, and to process everything that had happened.

 

In transforming to alt mode, he had also moved the metal ammo case in his subspace into his trunk.

 

"Hey!"

 

Bumblebee startled, EM field flaring and combat routines firing up with a clatter of relays and a whine of hydraulics. For a moment, he thought he'd run over somebody. Then he recognized the voice and remembered, finally, at last: Mikaela had tossed the ammo case in his trunk. He had not realized the case held living contents. Had she done it to confine the youngling, or had she done it to keep him safe? Bee wasn’t sure. 

 

Meditation rudely interrupted, Bumblebee ejected the box from his trunk with a quick shake and a partial transformation. Wheelie protested the treatment with scream. "Auuugh! I thought the fighting was over!"

 

Bumblebee transformed the rest of the way, and picked the metal box up off the ground. He squinted at the latch, and then managed to get it open by flicking it a couple of times with his finger. Wheelie took one look at Bee looming over him and tried to run. Bumblebee stepped on his chain, bringing the Decepticon up short. Grimly, he said, "You've been in my trunk for days."

 

"When you didn’t subspace me, you glitch!” 

 

Subspace was unpleasant, to say the least. It was total sensory deprivation. Bumblebee mentally winced. He might be as hard and violent as the next warrior when required, but he didn’t, as a rule, subspace his enemies. It did say something about the little mech that he was just pissed and not gibbering with insanity. Cybertronians did not react well to social isolation.

 

Bee didn’t say anything, however. He continued to loom. That case had only been subspaced when he was in root mode. He’d spent at least half of the last week in alt. 

 

“You could have let me out any time," Wheelie said, still angry, but  a bit cowed. "I thought it was still dangerous out there!"

 

Bumblebee contemplated just squishing the Decepticon. Wheelie had helped them, yes, but he'd done so under threat of death or dismemberment. He'd also done rude things to Mikaela's foot. Additionally, he was just annoying. 'Bee had no problems with killing little Decepticons - he'd eliminated a few tens of thousands of the obnoxious pests over his lifetime. If you wanted to fight with Optimus, you couldn't be squeamish about necessary killing. 

 

Over that time, he'd met a few like Wheelie, who pretended to be allies until they could betray the Autobots for whatever tiny scrap of approval they might earn from the Decepticon commanders. Bumblebee was loyal to his oaths unto death, and he had little sympathy for oathbreakers ... even those who broke their  Decepticon  oaths.

 

Fangface, he recalled, with a mental flinch.

 

Wheelie was cringing against Jetfire's tomb.

 

The pest had been in his trunk through several dozen classified meetings (due to lack of space in the transport planes, they’d generally traveled in alt), one or two emotionally sensitive conversations with Optimus and Sam, and a few instances of flirting with Mikaela that he heartily hoped Wheelie had not recorded, because the occasional bit of outrageous flirting with Mikaela was simply fun and far more innocent than Sam would likely assume. It wasn't as if the joking between them would, or could, ever go anywhere ... but the point was, Wheelie could easily have saved any or all of that audio.

 

Given the first bit - the fact that the Decepticon would have overheard considerable sensitive information - he was almost morally obligated to destroy him. Only the fact that the youngling had helped them save Optimus’s life saved him. 

 

"Please! I'll be good! Don't kill me!" Wheelie had his good eye irised shut and his hands held up defensively.

 

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" Bumblebee demanded, leaning over - he was close enough to swat the Decepticon flat, but not so close that Wheelie could strike back with a surprise attack. He had a healthy respect for the fighting abilities of even the tiniest of Decepticons. "You've been in my trunk for seven days, youngling."

 

"I was scared!" Wheelie was begging. "I didn't hear the girl around. She would protect me! Did she die? Please tell me she didn't die ... don't kill me!"

 

Bumblebee withdrew a bit, considering. Wheelie's fear was legitimate, enough to crack the little mech's normal sarcastic bluster. It was also true that Mikaela had not been around much; she’d been working with Ratchet on repairs. 

 

Bumblebee was still tempted to just squish him. The 'bot was pressed up against the concrete of the tomb. Bumblebee could just smack him with the palm of his hand, crack his spark casing wide open, and be done with it. He had overheard sensitive information, he was a Decepticon, and that should have been all Bumblebee needed to know.

 

"Jetfire said ... Jetfire said I didn't have to be a bad guy." Wheelie peered up at Bumblebee through his own fingers. He was visibly shaking, and Bee figured if he wasn't standing on Wheelie's chain, the Decepticon would have been long gone.

 

"Slag." His sentimentality could get them killed, but he couldn't bring himself to kill the Decepticon specifically because he was plastered against Jetfire's tomb. Bumblebee reached down. Wheelie shrieked. Bee, however, simply closed his hand around the tiny little mech and picked him up. He held the little 'bot up at nose level. "Do anything to hurt my friends and I will personally step on you. Is that clear?"

 

"I-I-I understand," Wheelie stammered. He was cowering again.

 

Bumblebee unceremoniously dropped the Decepticon back to the ground. He transformed and popped the passenger door. "Get in. Don't make me regret this."

 

Wheelie was silent, hunched in the seat, for several moments, as Bumblebee navigated his way back to the the hanger. Finally he said, "What happened to the Warrior Goddess?"

 

"Mikaela went home. She'll be back this weekend." Bumblebee paused, considered the question, then added, "Hump her foot again and I will render you for scrap."

 

"But I like her ..."

 

Bumblebee started to slow down and pull over. He didn't actually intend to squish Wheelie at this point, but the threat worked - Wheelie went quiet. Good, Bumblebee thought. The robot's very voice, nevermind his cringing, grated on Bumblebee's nerves. Bee thought, irritably,  This is all probably an act - in ten thousand years, he'll be another Starscream. He's just picking the side he thinks is most likely to win right now. It's not about right or wrong. It's about self interest.

 

He kept an eye on Wheelie with an optic sensor in the cab. The little robot was now hiding in the footwell, and he was still shaking. Slag it. A Decepticon would have absolutely no problems with terminating a similar Autobot youngling.

 

Despite having chosen the voice of a mature adult human male, Wheeling was a youngling. His EM field held ample clues that he had very limited operational hours. Once upon a time, children had been cherished ...

 

With resignation tinting his field now, Bee thought,  I guess that's what makes me an Autobot. I won't do it. Even if I know he's going to betray us eventually, I will not kill a being who is asking to join our fight. Particularly not a child who may -- just may -- prove my cynicism wrong.

 

 

* * *

 

Optimus’s voice tone made Bumblebee flatten his armor. Nobody wanted Optimus upset at them. "He was in your trunk how long?"

 

"Seven days." Bee met Optimus's gaze, then looked sharply away. He'd screwed up. Optimus would probably have a few stern words with him as soon as they had a moment alone, face to face, out of earshot of anyone else. There would only be a few - Optimus could pack quite a lecture into one or two sentences. I'm disappointed in you, Bumblebee. I always expect more from you.  He could hear Optimus's words already. He wasn't looking forward to that discussion, because he  had  let Optimus down.

 

Optimus turned his attention to Wheelie, who was hiding behind Bumblebee's foot. "What is your name, youngling?"

 

Wheelie peered out, then said with some surprise, "Hey! You're Optimus Prime! I'm in the presence of the greatest and most glorious leader ever known to our kind! I’m so glad that human boy brought you back!"

 

"He answers to Wheelie, according to Mikaela." Bumblebee reached down, picked the little Decepticon up between thumb and forefinger, and held him up for Optimus to see. "Says he wants to join us. Jetfire inspired him, I guess."

 

Optimus made a noise similar to a human clearing his throat. Bee drooped, realizing he had let his leader down again, and this time he wasn't sure how or why. He suspected he'd find out later.

 

"I apologize for how they have treated you," Optimus said, holding a hand out, palm up. Bumblebee dropped the Decepticon into Optimus's fingers. Optimus did not close his fist around Wheelie as Bumblebee expected, however. He simply held his hand up, flat, at eye level with himself. The chain pooled around Wheelie's feet, and Wheelie's shaking had stopped. Optimus studied him, then said, "You've been injured."

 

"The Warrior Goddess did it. Badge of honor."

 

"Wheelie, how old are you?" Optimus asked, voice amazingly gentle.

 

"Thir-thirteen earth years. Not counting time in stasis." He seemed surprised enough by the question to give a straight answer, and Wheelie also looked like he was relaxing a bit, in reaction to Optimus's utter calm. That time in stasis must have been considerable, but given the number of small, fierce little Decepticons they'd run into, Optimus had said he suspected the Decepticon leadership of stockpiling large numbers of young, disposable mechs before the war had begun.

 

Because of his general behavior and his field, 'Bee had believed Wheelie was young, but had never thought he was  that  young. He felt ‘older’ than than a mere thirteen years. 

 

Optimus extended one finger, tilting Wheelie's head up with a gentle push under his vocal parts. Wheelie didn't look afraid at all, even though Optimus could have crushed him like a mosquito if he'd so chosen. The diameter of Optimus's finger was bigger than Wheelie's whole head. "Your optic sensor is ruined. We will need to make you a new one as we do not have any parts in your size. It will take a few days to fabricate what we need, and as Bee can attest, I cannot guarantee that repairs made using human technology will work as they are supposed to. However, we will do what we can. We may even be able to give you temporary vision using a human camera. It must be miserable to be unable to see in three dimensions."

 

"What's in this for you?" Wheelie stared at Optimus in utter astonishment. He rested his hands on the tip of one of Optimus's half-curled fingers.

 

Optimus smoothed Wheelie's fingers out straight with an impossibly gentle touch. Some appeared to be twisted and unstable; you couldn't tell at first glance, but it was clear they were uneven on closer examination. When Optimus prompted Wheelie to make a fist, a couple fingers stuck out at awkward angles. Optimus said quietly, "You've broken some joints. Those we can fix immediately. The human machine shop here is very good."

 

“That’s old damage. Megatron refused to let the medics fix us little guys. We’re disposable, y’know.” Wheelie glanced at his hands, head tilted a little to one side to compensate for his limited field of vision. "Why? What do you want from me?"

 

"As long as you are under my command, I will see that you are repaired. It is part of my duty as your leader. And - on a personal note -- I hate to see anyone suffer."

 

"But I was a Decepticon and Megatron would have just destroyed me if I was this badly hurt. He did others. He said they weren't worth fixing and he didn't want to listen to them complain." The words came tumbling out in a panicked rush. "I thought ... I thought for sure you would just eliminate me. That's why I hid. I thought you'd destroy me because I was a Decepticon, or if not that, because I was broken. That's why I didn't say anything to Bee! But he kept subspacing me and I couldn’t take it anymore! I wasn't spying, I swear, I swear, I swear ..." Wheelie paused, collected himself, and said, "Right now? You'll fix me now?"

 

The little Decepticon suddenly seemed to bounce in place. "Now I'm sure I was fighting for the wrong side. Autobots have a much better benefits package!"

 

Optimus laughed. "Wheelie, I cannot imagine deliberately leaving any of my people unrepaired if I have the resources available to fix them. Come with me, I'll take you to the repair hanger."

 

"You'll take me personally?"

 

"Would you prefer Bee show you to the shop?" Optimus said, sounding a little confused.

 

"No! He threatened to step on me!" Wheelie shot Bumblebee a glare full of hate.

 

"Bee!" Optimus exclaimed, but there was amusement in his voice. This, at least, wasn't a scolding. "You didn't."

 

"I said I'd step on him if he caused harm to any of us," Bumblebee clarified. Surely Optimus couldn't fault him for that statement. He'd heard Optimus say worse in the heat of battle. None of them were, as Epps put it, boy scouts, including Optimus Prime.

 

"Hmm. I do not believe that you will ever need to make good on that threat." Optimus lifted Wheelie to his shoulder. The little Decepticon scrambled up, and clung to one of Optimus's windows like a very small monkey. Bumblebee didn't trust Wheelie, and if he had a weapon Optimus had just allowed him in lethally close range. Wheelie was tiny, but he was certainly far from harmless. Bee just barely kept his combat routines from activating. Optimus’s lecture would surely be far worse if he suddenly bristled with weapons. 

 

Slag, but Optimus likes kids , Bumblebee thought, watching the two of them.  Unfortunately, this kid is one of the enemy. I can't trust him. Not until he proves himself. Jetfire's the exception. Most Decepticons are just looking out for their own self interest when they say they want to become Autobots.

  
He’d learned that truth the hardest way possible.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam leaned on the catwalk's railing and watched as the twins chased each other around the hanger. They were arguing about something, but the disagreement had long ago devolved into cussing and swearing. It hadn’t exactly started with a great display of intellect, either.

 

Optimus, Bee, and the other senior Autobots were off in a meeting that involved discussion of Autobot defense systems, and Optimus had made it quite clear that, as much as he was fond of Sam, and grateful to him, he had a firm and unwavering commitment to keep Autobot weapons technology out of human hands. Sam wasn't invited, nor was anyone who wasn't part of Optimus's closest inner circle of commanders.

 

Sam had been somewhat surprised to realize that Optimus considered Bumblebee part of his inner circle. Bee had been gone all day, and was not even answering Sam’s occasional text to him, except for a very telling, ‘I’m sorry, Sam, it would be rude to talk to you when Optimus is asking my opinion on matters of our defense.’

 

It had only been in retrospect that Sam had realized that Optimus would not have trusted Sam’s safety to just any rank and file 'bot. 'Bee had asked to stay with him, but Optimus would have assigned someone highly skilled and trusted anyway, if 'Bee had not volunteered. Sam still didn’t think he was as important as the ‘bots believed, and he still wanted a normal life, but he was well aware that the Autobots disagreed with his estimation of his self worth -- and a normal life was probably not in his future. Damnit.

 

Among the 'bots left behind were two thirds of Arcee (only one-third of Arcee was attending the meeting), the twins, Ratchet (who was an inner-circle commander, but who was pointedly not interested in weapons tech or military strategies beyond knowing which way to point his guns in combat), Jolt, Sideswipe, and a new Autobot called Doc. The latter seemed to be recharging; he had an electric blue and silver Harley Davidson-plus-sidecar alt, and the bike was motionless at the top of the stairs to the catwalk. That was an unlikely place for a bike unless the bike in question turned into a mech only slightly larger than a human.

 

Sam was just waiting for the first Harley purist to comment on the Autobot sigil (plus a pair of stylish wings) taking the place of the Harley logo. Doc wasn’t much taller than a human, but he was built along the lines of the Incredible Hulk. (He’d made that observation to Mikaela, who’d wrinkled up her nose and said, “He’s more like Hank McCoy than Bruce Banner, Sam.” Mikaela had been working with him on repairs to the mechs, and seemed to like him quite a lot.)

 

Doc was supposedly a medic who specialized in carbon-based life forms, though he had been pressed into service treating mecha and clearly had some skill at it. Now, perhaps worked to the point of frank exhaustion like the rest of the Autobot medics, he was sleeping. Sam wondered how anyone could sleep through the racket the twins were making. Perhaps he was just pretending to be oblivious.

 

Sam had initially felt a little rejected when Optimus had told him to stay behind, but in retrospect, he decided he didn't much mind being excluded from Optimus's meeting. He had a head full of Cybertronian data that made him a target for the Decepticons. He didn’t need to add to that database, thanks. Knowledge of current Autobot tech and defense plans would make him a target for Cybertronian and human entities, both military and corporate.

 

Besides that, the meeting promised to be boring.

 

The twins switched over to the Cybertronian language as Sam watched them squabble. He understood about twenty words of Cybertronian - all of them obscene, all of them utterly unpronounceable by humans. He'd learned them because Bee cussed under his breath when they played video games together, and he'd started asking for translations. He was pretty sure Mudflap had just called his brother the slagged illegitimate offspring of a sparkless drone, which was essentially used as the equivalent of "you fucking bastard!" in English.

 

And then Skids chucked a hubcap at his brother like a frisbee. It spanged off Mudflap’s helm, and ricocheted off the wall before hitting Doc with enough force to scratch paint. Doc transformed in a flash, startled. He stood, weapons out, owlishly blinking in shock as his processors finished booting, clearly not sure what had just hit him but -- like any of the Autobot soldiers, ready to kill the threat.

 

"Yo! Mudflap!" Sam shouted down, deliberately distracting himself from deeper musings, "If your brother's the son of a sparkless drone, doesn't that apply to you, too, since you are twins?"

 

Doc put his weapons away, after a moment, and without a word, transformed back to alt mode. Sam noted he chose a place a bit farther back from the edge of the catwalk, where he would be less likely to be struck by flying objects. Wise mech.

 

Sam’s comment earned him a very human insult back: one upraised middle digit. From both 'bots. Simultaneously. There had been plenty of cross-cultural sharing when it came to insults. Soldiers, as Ratchet sometimes grumbled, had certain universal constants. (Ratchet was perfectly willing to admit he was an excellent example of a soldier with a profane vocabulary, too. Ratchet claimed medics had more reason to swear than the rest of the army combined.)

 

Then, despite Sam’s question, the twins were off again, tumbling wildly across the floor. The fight was getting out of hand. While small, the twins were entirely capable of taking the whole hanger down completely by accident. Worried, Sam stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The twins paused in fighting, and looked up.

 

"Knock it off," he said, firmly, pitching his voice to carry, "It's embarrassing watching the two of you. Have some dignity."

 

Both robots drooped, muttered apologies, and went back to their corner, where they appeared to be playing some sort of board game. Skids grumbled, loud enough for everyone to hear, "He's been hanging out with Optimus too much ..."

 

But they listened.

 

"How do you do that?" Major Lennox's voice behind Sam made him jump. In a lower voice, he added, "They irritate the hell out of me."

 

"Guilt. Guilt works beautiful on all of the Autobots. Ordering them around doesn't always work -- not if you’re smaller than they are." Sam admitted this freely, with a laugh. “And yeah, they’re annoying.”

 

The Autobots had gone to great lengths to imitate both human body language and human speech. He knew they'd processed a heck of a lot of human movies. Unfortunately, he suspected that the twins had watched the wrong movies ... And that was a reminder that, however human they often seemed, they weren't. They were copying a media stereotype without understanding all the cultural ramifications behind it.

 

He really needed to take both of them aside and have a chat about the impression they were presenting. And if that failed, he might want to have a talk with Optimus. Fortunately, the twins had not been in the public eye yet. If they couldn't pick a different role model, it might be good to keep them out of sight. He really didn’t want to be embarrassed by them in public. Bee, sweet and well meaning as he was, could be bad enough.

 

Lennox nodded thoughtfully. “I'll have to remember the bit about the guilt."

 

Sam shrugged. "Just give my mother the credit. I learned that trick from her."

 

Lennox laughed. He’d met Judy Witwicky.

 

He leaned over the railing and watched as one third of Arcee went wheeling across the room to retrieve a tool from a locker against the wall. It appeared to be a perfectly normal hammer and looked tiny in her hands. She rolled back and started banging on the gun with a purpose. By the colors, he thought the weapon belonged to Optimus.

 

Lennox, also watching, observed, "I still can't believe the three of them are one person ... I'd sure love to know more about Autobot biology, but the 'bots aren't talking."

 

"You mean the male versus female thing?" Sam asked, with a grin.

 

"Yeah, that."

 

"They wouldn't tell you what that's about?"

 

"I didn't, uh, ask, actually." Lennox looked like he had indigestion. "It didn't seem diplomatic. But when I questioned how they reproduced, Ironhide said the stork brought little 'bots. I assumed it was a culturally inappropriate question."

 

Sam snickered. He could picture the scene perfectly, including Ironhide's grouchy delivery. "Okay, the next time you've got a question like that? Ask Ratchet, not Ironhide. I know there's some sort of way to get a new spark into suitable body, but I don't know all the details. Ratchet could probably provide them. Bring a notebook, and maybe a tape recorder, and be prepared for a lecture. Even if it’s culturally sensitive, Ratchet will give you a straight answer, just so long as it’s not classified."

 

"Oh."

 

"As far as the robot male-versus-female thing goes, that one I did ask Ratchet, because I was curious. Apparently, they really are asexual by design, but they determined humans would be both uneasy with that, and less likely to see them as 'people' rather than 'things.' So they chose to assume the identity of the sex they identified the most with, and that they had the most attributes of." He shrugged. The whole thing had made sense to him when Ratchet had explained it. He still thought of the guys as 'guys' because it was just easier. "Our Autobots are warriors by nature. Most of them chose 'male' but Arcee's a little different, and she's quite a bit more like we would call girly. So she decided to take on a female identity. I suspect if you looked at a sampling of civilian mechs, there would be a lot more who chose to be seen as girls."

 

"That's ... weird." Lennox stared down at Arcee.

 

"Yeah, particularly when you hear Ratchet claim 'Bee had a hard time choosing." Sam had laughed his ass off at that comment, and had teased Bumblebee mercilessly about it for days. Bee, at least, was in tune with human culture enough to understand why he was being teased, which made it even more fun. Mikaela, for reasons he failed to understand, had not been amused by Sam’s teasing of Bee, but Mikaela often got bent out of shape over things that confused Sam.

 

"Anyway. Optimus seems to think you'll be working with the 'bots long term."

 

"Huh? Yeah, I guess." He was going to go back to college too, but he thought he could balance both. He'd suggested dropping college, and both his father and Optimus had reacted with dismay to the idea. He had been thoroughly double-teamed by the pair of them - his father had been convinced that someday the Autobots would be out of his life someday and he would need a career after that. Optimus had both agreed with Mr. Witwicky that there might come a day when the Autobots would leave Earth, but he had also said, "While that day may be long after your death, Sam Witwicky, I need you to learn some useful skills in your college."

 

Point taken. After further discussion with Optimus on what might be useful, he changed his major to pre-law. His father had laughed at him, mockingly. His mother had shrieked for glee at the thought of a lawyer son. His logic (backed up by Optimus’s assessment) was that the Autobots didn't need another scientist. They could easily get all the human warriors they could ever possibly want. But they just might need help with legal matters. He was not, however, looking forward to those classes ...

 

Lennox frowned. "We'll need to get you set up with quarters on a base."

 

"If you don't mind," Sam said, "I'd rather stay in my dorm."

 

"Is that safe?" Lennox scowled at him. "Megatron could still be ..."

 

"... after me, yeah, I know, I know. But I'll have 'Bee with me, and they're talking about sending Arcee as well, because her sections could fit into a human building." Sam trailed off as the hanger doors opened, below.

 

Ratchet rolled into the hanger. The medic transformed, which put his head even with with their eye level up on the catwalk. Lennox took a step back, reflexively. Sam, who considered Ratchet second only to Bee in the category of warm-fuzzy 'bots despite Ratchet's sometimes biting wit and cynical sarcasm, leaned forward over the rail. "What's up, Ratchet?"

 

"Optimus wants to know if you'd babysit."

 

"I do not need a babysitter!" Wheelie's indignant voice came from Ratchet's closed fist. Ratchet opened his hand and dropped the (former) Decepticon at Sam's feet. Wheelie scrambled back up his feet and announced in what was definitely not an indoor voice, "I'm an Autobot now! I should be in the slagging meeting!"

 

"Sorry, kid." Ratchet shrugged expressively. "That meeting's for the senior command only."

 

"I thought he liked me." Wheelie plunked himself down to sit on the ground, arms folded, and seemed to be pouting.

 

"Sorry, Sam," Ratchet said, then transformed and headed for the door.

 

Lennox, who'd watched the whole exchange with bemusement, studied Wheelie intently. Wheelie glared back up at him with one good eye and one clearly jury-rigged camcorder tied on with plastic zip ties. Wheelie demanded, "What are you looking at?"

 

"Now, Wheelie, do you think Optimus would like to hear you talk that way to your hosts?" Sam reached down, picked Wheelie back up and plunked him down on his wheels much as one might manhandle a toddler, and then gave him a shove to get him moving.

 

"No." Wheelie still sounded like he was sulking.

 

"Come on, I suppose I can find out how good you are at video games ..." Sam sighed. Personally, he wasn't sure why Optimus was even allowing the shrimpy former Decepticon to hang around, and by the suspiciousness of rest of the team, he thought the other 'bots were even more concerned than he was.

 

"I'm going to kick your aft at Dungeon War!" Wheelie shouted the name of a popular multi-player gaming site, and ran ahead to the human offices that branched off the catwalk. Wheelie, apparently, already knew that there were computers installed in one of the unused offices, ostensibly for work, but which were more often used for recreation.

 

He'd yet to meet a mech (other than Optimus, who seemed to find them beneath his dignity) who didn't like video games. Pretty much all the Autobots were obsessing over Burnout, at the moment, which Mikaela found absolutely hilarious, and Sam had to admit was amusing. Someone on the team had made a semi look just like Optimus, right down to the flames, with a bit of hacking, and Optimus himself had chuckled when he'd seen the results.

 

Wheelie turned out to have a very high level character on Dungeon War, as did Sam, and they kicked orc butt for about an hour. Sam was mildly surprised to find that he was enjoying himself. Then, however, an even badder character showed up, with the screen name of Skywarp. The Decepticon Seeker wasn't even bothering to hide his identity, which somehow irritated Sam. You'd think the Decepticons would try to be subtle.

 

Decepticons. Subtle. Not happening.

 

Wheelie, who was also using his own handle, yelped and frantically logged off, "Oh, shit, now he'll know I'm alive!"

 

Sam suggested, with some amusement at the thought of Decepticons playing recreational games, "You could always tell him you were being held captive in an old ammo case, but you convinced us you were a good guy, so we adopted you. And then you could offer to spy for the Decepticons."

 

Wheelie's glare was positively deadly. "I wouldn't betray you people! You're nuts!"

 

Sam scratched his jaw. He'd been at least partly ribbing the little Decepticon, but now he wondered if the 'bot was protesting too much. He also doubted that the Decepticons cared all that much about Wheelie. The Decepticons clearly considered Wheelie and his kind to be disposable and inconsequential and had likely imported mechs like Wheelie by the score.

 

"I wouldn't! I swear, I wouldn't! ... Wait, wait, I could feed them disinformation!" Wheelie spun around in his seat to face Sam. He pointed at the bright, shiny, brand new Autobot logo embossed on his chest plating. "I'm loyal! I can do this! Lemme talk to Optimus ... he'll agree, it's a good idea!"

 

Before Sam could grab him, Wheelie bolted for the catwalk. As he roared past Doc, the Harley started to transform, but Doc was too slow to grab him. Sam ducked past Dock and pursued the tiny mech down the metal stairs. Wheelie transformed in mid leap at the bottom of the stairs into what appeared to be a toy RC car - but it was a toy car that rapidly outpaced Sam. _Damnit!_ Apparently, Ratchet had either upgraded Wheelie's speed, fixed something that had been slowing him down, or the little runt had actually been holding back at the Smithsonian.

 

"Arcee, help!" He shouted as he ran past both of her frames currently not in the meeting, "Gotta catch that 'bot!" One of them - her - whatever - reacted. The pink portion of Arcee separated from the other two, transformed, and raced beside him. He slowed only long enough to fling a leg over the motorcycle's saddle, and yelled, "Go! Catch him!"

 

"Put a helmet on! Humans are breakable!" Arcee countered, coming to a complete halt. There was a helmet hanging off the handlebars that he could have sworn was not there a moment before. "Optimus's orders."

 

He growled something rude under his breath at overprotective Autobots in general - he'd have to be a complete idiot to fall off a sentient motorcycle - then he jammed the helmet onto his head, grabbed a tight hold onto her handlebars, and shouted, "Go!"

 

Wheelie was at least a half mile ahead. Arcee laid down rubber, or possibly, in light of Autobot technology, charred the asphalt. He wasn't sure if the smoke cloud she was leaving behind her was melting tires or burning tar! She accelerating so hard he struggled to maintain his seat. He suspected she was laughing at him. And then he knew she was when she said, with a snicker in her voice, "Glad for the helmet now, kid?"

 

The helmet had speakers that transmitted her voice to his ears. It also had a plastic faceplate that was noisily being splattered with bugs.

 

"Yes ma'am," he agreed, "helmet good. Now get that 'bot!"

 

Wheelie, unfortunately, was more agile than Arcee by virtue of being smaller. He was able to swerve and dart back and forth, and Arcee lost ground each time. Then he dodged through a drain pipe in a block wall. Arcee transformed in mid leap and vaulted the fence - Sam clutched wildly at her shoulders and wondered when he'd ever thought Arcee might be overprotective. She hadn't even warned him. He smacked the faceplate of the helmet against her back, bit his lip, nearly lost his grip, and swore at her, "Fuck! Slow down! It's not that important!"

 

"I'm going to blast that little Decepticon into bits!" She sounded like she meant it. Then he realized she'd raised her gun up and was taking aim.

 

"What? NO! Arcee, stop! Don't kill him!"

 

She ignored him, and he saw disaster looming. She might not be able to catch Wheelie, but he'd watched her blow things up before. She had formidably good aim.

 

"Arcee, stand down!" Optimus's voice, rumbling across the base at a very high volume, accomplished what Sam couldn't. Arcee skidded to a halt and spun around to face her leader, who was looming over all three of them - Wheelie, spotting Optimus, had spun about and made a beeline for him. Sam was consistently amazed at how fast Optimus could move when he put his mind to it! Wheelie, with a squeak of terror, hid behind one of Optimus's legs. Sam managed to suppress a similar yelp as he dropped off Arcee's back. Before he ever rode with her again, he decided he would definitely need to set some ground rules. And possibly have 'Bee or Optimus give her a stern lecture on the actual capabilities of the human body. Clearly, she didn't understand how breakable humans were!

 

Optimus crouched and held a hand out. Wheelie dove into it, transforming as he did, and pointing angrily at the two of them. "They were trying to kill me!"

 

“I wasn’t! She was trying to get me killed!” Sam protested.

 

"Arcee? Why were you pointing a weapon at Wheelie?" Optimus's voice was frighteningly calm. Sam took a reflexive step back. Arcee also rolled backwards, and a good bit farther than he did. He'd never seen Optimus really angry at one of his own Autobots before, but suspected he was about to. He was, frankly, scary. Sam decided then and there that he never wanted to be on the receiving end of that anger.

 

"He ran away!" She rolled even farther back.

 

"Was not! Wanted to talk to Optimus!" Wheelie folded his arms and glared at both of them.

 

"Sorry, Optimus ..." Sam stripped the helmet off. His fingers hurt. "My fault. I told her to 'get him' but I didn't specify I wanted him alive. I just didn't want him disrupting your meeting."

 

Optimus transferred Wheelie to his shoulder, then crouched to be on eye level with Arcee. "This wasn't about Wheelie, and it wasn't about Sam, was it?"

 

She met his glare with a frown, and said something in Cybertronian that Sam didn't have a prayer of understanding. Optimus replied in English, "Wheelie is not Megatron. He has declared his loyalties to us. You will treat him as an ally, not as an enemy. Is that perfectly and completely and totally clear?"

 

"Yes, sir." She hung her head.

 

"I am deeply disappointed in you." Optimus took two strides forward, caught her face in his hand and made her look up at him. "You would have killed one of our own! I have outcast Autobots for less than this."

 

"I ..." She started to speak in English, then again said something in Cybertronian. Since all the 'bots were totally fluent in English to the point that they claimed it didn't matter which language they spoke, Sam assumed whatever she had said was something she didn't want him to hear - or that he wasn't meant to hear. It was either a state secret or a personal one. Even odds which. Whatever it was, however, made Wheelie flinch. Optimus's body language changed as well, in alien and unreadable ways. He was not trying to communicate to a human. Sam had no idea what he was thinking or which way his emotions had gone.

 

"I also need you here." Optimus wouldn't let her pull away. "Arcee, you have talents which we truly need if we are to defeat Megatron once and for all. But I cannot have you taking your grief and anger at others out on this little one."

 

"He's no innocent."

 

"Perhaps not." Optimus finally let her go. She rolled backwards, and wouldn't meet his eyes. "But neither are any of us. Go back to work, Arcee. I need that gun repaired by tomorrow, if possible. There's reports coming in of Decepticon base in the South America that requires our attention."

 

"Yes, sir." She fled in a hurry, zooming off between two buildings and back in the general direction of the hanger.

 

Sam was somewhat glad that she hadn't offered him a return ride. After that crazy trip he'd rather walk.

 

"Arcee was once four, not three," Optimus said, quietly, in explanation to both Wheelie and Sam. "Megatron hurt her badly. Which does not excuse what she did here, but what I said is true: I need her. And she will not make the same error of judgment twice."

 

He held a hand up, inviting Wheelie to stand in his palm. Wheelie, who looked visibly shaken, did so. "Little one, what did you want to tell me so very badly?"

 

"I ..." Had Wheelie been human, he would have taken a deep breath. As it was, he drew himself up, stood square, and said, "I'd like to be a double agent. Sir."

 

Optimus nodded, as if the thought had occurred to him as already. "It might be dangerous. When they learn the truth - and they will, someday - you will earn the ire of Megatron himself. He is a formidable enemy. As it stands, I do not think they would care much about your alliance, or have even noticed that you are gone."

 

"I ..." Wheelie hesitated, then made a jerky gesture with one tiny hand towards the camcorder they'd strapped on as a temporary replacement for his damaged eye. "I think I get 'danger,' boss."

 

"Mmm. So you do. What did you have in mind?" Optimus sounded like he was taking Wheelie very seriously, much to Sam's surprise. Sam had thought the whole thing was a bad idea - at the very least, they had no idea if Wheelie was for real or just being opportunistic.

 

"I'd like to feed the ‘cons enough good intel that they thinks I'm on their side still. Skywarp can't keep his mouth shut - he gossips. He'll tell me things you need to know. He’s dumb as a box of rocks, and I suspect the only reason he’s allowed to play video games is it hasn’t occurred to anyone that he would do so." Wheelie glanced down at Sam. "You can have the boy keep an eye on me if you want. I know none of you trust me. You trust Sam, though. The boy can watch. Or, uh, anyone else you can spare.”

 

"That's not a bad idea, Wheelie," Optimus said, and Wheelie practically wriggled in place like an excited dog, he was so clearly pleased by the praise. "And yes, I will have Sam watch you - you are correct in believing that I do not trust you yet."

 

Wheelie's expression change, closing down. Sullenly, he said, "You can, you know."

 

Optimus stared off towards the horizon for a moment. What he was seeing in that instant, Sam couldn't begin to guess, except that he knew the 'bots had a long and savage history with the Decepticons. "I wish that I could take you at your word. However, I have a greater responsibility to everyone who I lead - I cannot allow the risk that you are deceiving us. The stakes are far too high. Those I trust, like Bumblebee and Ironhide, I have known for a very long time. Or, as Sam has, they have proven themselves while under great risk to their own lives. None of that applies to you, at this time."

 

Wheelie said, bitterly, "And I'm just a Decepticon turncoat. My word means nothing. Is that it?"

 

Optimus's voice was very gentle. "It means, Wheelie, that you have an opportunity to earn my trust, and the affection and trust of the others, and to truly become a member of this team. It is up to you to do. However, I believe the project you have suggested is a good first start."

 

Wheelie relaxed a bit, looked up, and said, somewhat defiantly, "I'll prove you all wrong, you know. You think I can't be trusted. Gonna prove I can."

 

"The question becomes," Optimus said, including Sam in the discussion with a quick glance in his direction, "what sort of legitimate information we can have Wheelie pass on to Starscream in the beginning. We need Wheelie to feed him real intelligence, but obviously, nothing that would harm our mission. Sam, what do you think?"

 

Sam blinked in surprise at the question. Optimus was asking for his input? No, he decided, Optimus was testing him. Optimus likely already had something in mind, but he wanted to see what Sam would come up with. And it occurred to him that a good answer might impress Optimus - he did want to earn Optimus's respect, as well as his trust. They were not the same thing at all.

 

Had it only been a week and a half ago that he'd screamed that this was not his war? Well, it had just gotten a lot more personal. Megatron had kidnapped his parents. Megatron's ancestor had tried to destroy the whole entire world. It was his war now.

 

"He could feed Megatron names of the new 'bots. Doc, for starters," Sam said, after a little thought. "Of course, if there's anyone really massively powerful who joins up, we'll make a point of not saying anything. Why spoil a nasty surprise?"

 

Optimus smiled. Clearly, Sam was on the right track.

 

Sam continued, "Doc isn't going to be much use in a fight, and I don't think Megatron would even be surprised that you'd brought in another medic. Telling Megatron about Doc would be a good start."

 

Optimus nodded thoughtfully. "No, Megatron would not be surprised. He knows me well enough to predict Doc's hiring. Doc has worked with me before, on other worlds, and Megatron knows that I care about the organic life forms - humans, in this case - who work with me. It would be logical for Megatron to assume that Doc is either already here, or on his way. Though -- do not assume Doc is harmless because he is small."

 

Sam grinned in reaction to the unstated praise. He'd gotten the answer right. "Also, Wheelie could provide Megatron with some information about our movements. Megatron is probably not going to attack us directly in the near future - he's still licking his wounds, and he's crazy, not stupid."

 

This got him another nod from Optimus, and a snicker from Wheelie. It was clear that Wheelie found insulting comments about Megatron very amusing.

 

Optimus nodded. "That's certainly a possibility. Actually - we're planning to take out a Decepticon base tomorrow morning, in South America. Wheelie could warn them of our arrival. That would establish his credibility in Megatron's eyes, would it not, Wheelie?"

 

"Yeah, but you could get hurt!" Sam protested, even as Wheelie started to agree. Memory of Optimus’s death was far too fresh in his mind.

 

Optimus was silent for a moment. "It is a small base. Our intelligence indicates that it mostly contains insecticons, minicons, and one large predacon. Our concern is not the size of the base, rather, it is the potential for it to grow larger. Even with warning, they will pose little threat, and we could time the alert so that they knew we were coming, but Megatron did not have a chance to send reinforcements."

 

"That is a risky plan, Optimus," Sam said, a bit worried. If the base held more bad guys than they thought, they could fly into a trap. If the Decepticons had reinforcements closer than intelligence suggested, they could arrive before the Autobots were gone.

 

Optimus's voice held a low chuckle when he said, "Indeed, it is. Sam, why do you think I might consider such a dangerous plan? Remember, Megatron has a temper and he takes losing battles personally. It is not about the loss of life or the injured allies for him. It is simply a personal insult when he loses."

 

"Oh." Sam suddenly got it. "You're setting a trap, aren't you? That's sneaky and underhanded and absolutely brilliant."

 

"And dishonorable," Wheelie was scowling - something he did frighteningly well. “Thought you guys were all about honor.”

 

"War," Optimus said, "is not about honor. War is about winning. Megatron's actions nearly caused the destruction of this world. I am not above setting up an ambush if it saves many human lives in the end. - Yes. Wheelie, if you will, pass on word about tomorrow's raid to Starscream at fourteen-hundred hours. We will be within an hour of the base at that time, and should be long gone before Megatron's reinforcements arrive."

 

"Megatron's gonna be pissed," Wheelie predicted.

 

"And even more so, when we repeat this routine three or four times," Optimus confirmed that Sam's guess had been correct with his next words. "We want him angry enough to be irrational and brash. When he is suitably enraged, you will give one more alert, advising him that a small contingent of Autobots is about to attack. We will give him time to set a trap. I can virtually guarantee that he will be there in person. However, rather than a tiny force, the attack will include as many soldiers as they will assign us, plus every Autobot on this world - including you, if you would like to come and fight with us. You are small, but I believe you have a few nasty surprises for your enemies, and no love for Megatron, correct?"

 

Wheelie nodded happily, and somewhat frenetically. "I can do that!"

 

And then he dove off Optimus's hand and zipped off between two builds, peeling out as he went. Sam watched him go, then asked Optimus quietly, "Will he actually be any use in battle?"

 

Optimus's response was a bit chiding, and made Sam flush with embarrassment, "There are Autobots who would ask the same thing about you, Sam. I would correct them every time. If not for you, I would not be here today to issue that correction."

 

Oh. Right.

 

Optimus added, "Please go track Wheelie down now, before anyone else decides to harm him. And - I do mean what I said about not trusting him until he's proven his loyalty beyond all doubt. Unfortunately, we have been betrayed before, by those we thought were our closest friends. Please monitor what he says closely, and do not allow him to communicate with Skywarp in Cybertronian if there is not an Autobot observing. We will record a log of the game play, but he could do great damage with even one comment, should he not be what he seems."

 

"Yes, sir." Sam tossed Optimus an impromptu salute.

 

"And Sam," Optimus added, "Be careful. I am trusting you to ensure he does not betray us."

 

Oh. Sam looked up at Optimus, as the enormity of that responsibility hit him. "Optimus, are you sure you want me to supervise him?"

 

"I think you are truly the best choice for that responsibility." Optimus started to turn away, then twisted back and added, "Please take him to school with you, when you return. It will do him good to see humans from the perspective of you and your friends. He has never known friendly humans before. And -- he will be less likely to betray us if he has friends among us."

 

Sam couldn't quite keep a grin off his face as he hurried after Wheelie. He wasn't overly excited about the idea of taking Wheelie to school, but Optimus's trust in him made him want to skip rather than walk back to the hanger.

 

* * *

 

 

Fang faked a limp as he hurried down the Nemesis’s corridors, when normally he would have done his damnedest to conceal any injuries. The Matrix had healed his injuries, and therefore he was more than a bit worried about being believed if he said he was knocked out in combat. He didn’t have so much as a scratch to show for it.

 

“Captain Fangface!” Starscream’s low purr made him stop in his tracks, even though his first impulse was to duck and cover. The seeker, as ungainly on the ground as he was graceful in the skies, lumbered down the hall after him. “Fang, there you are. Soundwave said he picked you up. What happened?”

 

“A mortar happened.” Fang kept carefully out of grabbing range. He reported to Starscream, mostly because Starscream was running out of Seekers with Skillz, and Starscream valued having his own personal spymaster and saboteur more than he required that said master of mischief and mayhem have wings. Starscream’s contempt of grounders was widely known; so was Starscream’s frank intelligence and a frightening level of pragmatism almost equal to Fang’s own.

 

Fang was good at his job. Starscream had suggested, more than once, that Fang reformat into himself into a flight frame. Fang was good at his job at least partly because of his frame, and had firmly declined that suggestion. Starscream was well aware that he wasn't the only high ranking commander in the army who could use Fang's services; if he pissed Fang off too much, Fang had other options for suitable benefactors. Therefore, Starscream tolerated what he considered Fang's flaws ... namely and primarily, a lack of wings. 

 

Starscream hissed, as Fangface had feared, “You don’t look injured.”

 

“Blast wave tripped a neural reset. Wall came down on me. By the time I was conscious and free, most of the fighting was over. Sorry, boss.”

 

“Huh. No dents.” Starscream squinted at him.

 

Before he'd made the mistake of touching the Matrix, he’d been dented and leaking and limping for real. The Matrix had healed that damage, as well as giving him a couple extra inches of height that he was praying nobody noticed, and more speed and power. The latter, at least, would be easy to conceal. Few other than his immediate associates knew just how fast and powerful he could be; they always underestimated his abilities. Those who did know him well (or as well as he allowed anyone to know him) expected outsized, explosive displays of speed and strength from him. He was originally designed to be a close-combat assassin from the struts out. His intelligence had been an unexpected Primus-given bonus.

 

He shrugged. “It was a soft wall. I’m not, as you well know, a front line warrior. I wasn’t designed to survive mortar blasts at close range and keep fighting. If Megatron had any functioning neural circuits in his processor, he’d have sicced me on the Autobots from behind, not had me try to lead a charge at half the blasted human army. They’ve got guns that can -- and did -- take me out of the fight. They’re small, not harmless! If he’d used me for what I’m good at, you know, sneak attacks, I could have taken one or two of the ‘bots out of commission permanently. He should have sicced a wave of drones at the humans and let me do what I’m good at.”

 

Starscream snorted at the end of Fangface’s tirade. “Careful, Fang. One might think you’d be a better leader than Megatron.”

 

Starscream’s words were highly mocking, both of Megatron and Fang himself.

 

A voice from Fang’s new Matrix said, **Yes.**

 

Fang replied to it, _:Well, yes, of course I would be a better leader, but I don't see anyone nominating me for the post and I'm not even sure I want it.:_

 

** You need injuries for veracity . And you contemplate a coup every time your leaders do something foolish. **

 

 _:Slagger.:_ Fang swore at the Matrix -- or the Prime who was talking to him through the Matrix, he wasn’t sure how that worked -- as he suddenly sprouted a leak. Coolant fluid poured out of his chassis in a hot, frothy, golden yellow, tide. Apparently, what the Matrix giveth, Matrix could taketh away. The ruptured line hurt, and he bit back a sharp oath that would have raised Starscream’s optic ridges, given his first impulse was to curse Primus and his minions up one side, down the other, and all the way to the Pit, aloud, and at high volume.

 

It really hurt.

 

Also, he was nearly out of fluid to begin with. He hadn’t yet had time to top off his reservoirs.

 

Starscream swore, and stepped back to avoid the puddle.

 

“Permission to seek repairs, Commander?” Fangface ground out.

 

“Go, go!” Starscream waved him off.

 

He headed, not for the med bay, but for his team's shared quarters in the bowels of the ship. Hook was undoubtedly overwhelmed, and this was a minor fix. By the time he hurried through the door, the gush of fluid had slowed to a trickle, not because Primus giveth a repair again, but because he was entirely out of coolant. Fortunately, he was small enough -- and the Nemesis cold enough -- that he had a few minutes grace period before he completely overheated.

 

His ‘lair’ as the commanders mockingly called it, and a name he had cheerfully adopted, was full of hundreds of tiny mecha. Most were currently repairing each other, cleaning up, or maintaining weapons. He was pleased by the amount of industrious work he saw when he surveyed the room. 

 

They ranged in size from buzzbots no bigger than the end of his finger to several predacons Ravage’s size. Fang was a giant amongst most them, a perspective he made no secret of enjoying. Outside the double doors leading into his realm, he was a scrawny, undersized and under-appreciated runt. Here, he was lord and master, a father figure and a beloved protector all rolled into one.

 

Only one of the mecha currently on his team was bigger than he was; the former voltrat known as Scurry. Scurry, in his half-completed frame, was hunched over and hacked into a terminal scaled for far smaller mecha. Fang headed for Scurry as the first overheat warnings popped up on his HUD.

 

Scurry’s rebuild was coming along nicely, he thought. The scavenged frame he’d found was enormous, and while it still needed a lot of work, it wouldn’t be long before he had a heavy hitter to back up his little guys.

 

Scurry had also been upgraded with one heck of a powerful processor. Scurry was a natural born analyst and tactician. Fang was very proud that he’d found a processor to match his native talents. The mech was already making good use of his new circuits.

 

“Fang, I was worried about you, when you didn’t come back with the others.” Scurry turned in his chair as Fang approached. Then his optic ridges pinched together to match a frown on his face. “You’re overheating.”

 

“Got a coolant leak.” Fang said. “Hose finally busted through right in front of Starscream.”

 

“Did you splash him?” Scurry asked, with some interest.

 

“Of course not. Would I let Starscream within splashing distance? I might catch a glitch from him.” Fang replied

 

The midget mecha within earshot -- and there were dozens -- giggled, tittered, buzzed, and snickered in response.

 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you all.” Fang spun around, bowing as he did, until he’d done a complete 365 degrees.

 

**I see you will not need to learn how to work a crowd.**

 

_ :This isn’t exactly the most sophisticated of audiences.: _

 

** Point taken.  **

 

_ :What do I call you, anyway?: _

 

**Vermillion Prime.**

 

 _:Ah, Vermin Prime. Appropriate, that you’re my Jiminy.:_ He recognized the name of one of the most colorful of Primes in Cybertron’s history, Optimus’s paintjob notwithstanding.

 

The Prime was silent for a moment, and then he accessed Fang’s memories seeking the source of the reference. This was every bit as disturbing to Fang as it sounded, and he pinned his ears flat and hissed in protest. He didn’t like anyone touching his processor.

 

“Fang?” Scurry said, rising from his chair. “Are you okay?”

 

“The hose just hurts,” he told Scurry, gesturing in the general direction of the ruptured hose. “Sometimes, I think Primus has it in for me.”

 

Vermin snickered, audible only to Prime.

 

_ :So, what, I hear voices the rest of my life?: _

 

** For the record, I am not your conscience. I am just your peanut gallery. **

 

_ :Oh, great. Of all the Matrixes I could have grabbed, I get the one haunted by Cybertron’s most famous comedian. Lucky, lucky, lucky me.: _

 

** I resemble that comment. **

 

_ :At least you’re not boring.: _

 

** I resemble that comment. Also, the Matrixes are not haunted by the Primes of the past. We can simply speak through them -- to any of the living Primes. **

 

_ :Do you pick on Optimus too? Because I’d love to hear that.: _

 

**Optimus is boring. He is a good mech, but he takes himself much too seriously, even inside the confines of his own processor. You, you are many things, some of them sleazy and disreputable, but you are definitely not boring. This makes you much more fun to pick on.**   


 

_ :I resemble that comment. Now shut up before Scurry gets worried. He’s the worst nannybot in the world when he’s worried.: _

 

** He loves you. **

 

_:Well, duh. All my mecha do. Now shut up already.:_

 

**Do you realize that most Primes spend long orns of meditation attempting to coax us to speak to them?**

 

_ :How boring are most Primes?: _

 

 **We only speak when we are truly needed. You, my fine fanged friend, need considerable help. **And then, with a snicker worthy of Skywarp, the presence that was Vermillion Prime disappeared. The room immediately felt ten degrees warmer ... though that might have just been the effect of his failed cooling system.

 

Scurry bent over and studied him. “You really are overheating, aren’t you?”

 

Before Fang could protest, his overlarge lieutenant reached down, picked him bodily up, and deposited him on a work bench. Fang bared his teeth in protest, but Scurry had already turned away. The analyst padded across the room, scattering the growing crowd of mini-mecha as he did. Scurry snapped at them, “Ohm, get me a couple bags of coolant. Virulent, I need hose clamps. Naga, a new hose -- you’ll need to go down to the med-bay to get one, take Heckle and Harrier to help you carry it. Indigo, my medical datapad. Go. Now. The rest of you, get back to repairing each other. And if you run out of repairs to do, the lair needs cleaning. Get your afts moving!”

 

The crowd dispersed, with Scurry’s firm encouragement.

 

Fangface smiled at him. “Thank you, Scurry.”

 

“I hate seeing you injured,” the big mech rumbled, as he returned with a tool kit in hand.

 

“Likewise.” Fang said, with a shudder. He really did like Scurry, who was a rare combination of intelligent and loyal. And memories of Scurry, his chassis ripped open, his old processor core mangled by tentacles, surfaced. He closed his optics, then jerked them open again when Scurry rested a hand gently on his shoulder.

 

“I’m fine, Fang. Thanks to you.”

 

Fang shook his head. “Not many mecha have the strength to resist Soundwave when he puts his mind to it, so to speak. That’s all on you, my friend. I just picked the pieces up.”

 

“Yeah, well, if he ever tries again, I’ve got the power to smash him flat. Thanks to you.” Scurry squeezed his shoulder firmly.

 

Fang wondered if he was being flirted with. Surely not, he was in no shape to reciprocate. Anyway, he consistently turned down any offers to ‘face, and Scurry knew that. Fang didn’t trust anyone in his processor, not even recreationally. He’d had enough of people connecting to his processor as a youngling who had been an experimental test subject, and he just plain failed to see the appeal.

 

Scurry fussed at the Fang’s dorsal plating. When he removed the first large plate of armor, the gust of chilly air across Fang’s overwarm internals was a tremendous relief. He sagged.

 

His minion poked him in the back. “Sit up straight, boss. I can’t access that hose if you’re slouching.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“I swear they modeled your backstruts from a snake, not a cat. If you had even a little less armor, you could tie yourself up in knots.” Scurry accepted a clamp from one of the insecticons he’d earlier dispatched to get parts, then told the six-legged little mecha, “Go find me a cooling blanket in Fang’s size.”

 

“I don’t need ...”

 

“You need.” Scurry interrupted, in a don’t-argue-with-me tone. “Virulent, go.”

 

“We don’t have a cooling blanket.” In alt mode, insecticon resembled an earth beetle with large jaws, only he was about a hundred times larger. He came up to Fang’s thigh or Scurry’s calf in root mode.

 

Fang leaned over and frowned down at him. He liked his minions resourceful -- he might have to loan this mechling to Swindle for extra lessons on Decepticon-approved methods of resourcefulness. “So go find a cooling blanket, dimwit.”

 

“Yes sir!”

 

Scurry shook his head after the beetle had skittered out the door. “I was worried, you know, when you didn't ccome back. Starscream values you enough that I expected him to rescue your aft if he had a chance. I figured you were badly hurt or captured. Or worse. I don’t know what will happen to all of us if we lose you, Fang.”

 

“Had a wall come down on me.”

 

From one of his peripheral optics along his spinal crest, he saw Scurry raise an optic.

 

“It was a soft wall. Mud bricks.”

 

“And then you stayed down.” Scurry smirked at him. Scurry knew him too well, and knew he valued his own aft over the dubious merits of following stupid orders to his death.

 

“Got my processor knocked for a loop.”

 

“You should see Hook, then,” Scurry said, and now he sounded worried. “Processor damage can take a bit to show up. I can do basic repairs, but I can’t fix your mind if you arc out, boss. We need you.”

 

In an effort to distract his minion, Fang produced the t-cog from his subspace. “Oh, hey, looky what I found while I was waiting for our glorious leaders to pick me up. Got it off a dead Autobot.”

 

The “dead Autobot” part was true enough ...

 

Scurry grinned, though Fang wasn't fooled that he was entirely distracted from worrying about Fang's health. Scurry was very, very good at worry. “Fantastic.”

 

“By tonight, you can take an alt mode. Have you put any thought into what you want?”

 

“Big. Beyond that, no.”

 

“I got a scan of a really big monster truck last time I was scouting on Earth. Thought you might like it.” Fang transmitted the image to Scurry. “It’ll work with your new root mode, though you’ll have to put the front tires up by your head.”

 

Scurry held his hands out on either side of his head, demonstrating he understood the position that Fang was suggesting

 

“Kinda like Princess Leia’s buns, only three times the size,” Fang said, then he ducked when Scurry swatted at him, and both laughed. Had anyone not on his team seen Fangface clowning around with his famously taciturn assistant, and referencing Earth media, they would have been astonished. Fang made sure _no one_ , not even his other minions, were around when he indulged in watching movies in his quarters with Scurry. Scurry had earned the privilege, and Fang enjoyed his company.

 

“I like it. The tires will be extra protection for my cranium.” Scurry said, with resumed dignity. “And it will make me look even bigger.”

 

“You’ll need a new designation to go with your new frame. Plus, we don’t want Soundwave to know you survived that attack until we have a chance to secure a little more ... protection ... for this team. He could try to take you again and reverse the reformat.”

 

“Deathwheels. Deathwheels is my new name,” Scurry growled, very firmly.

 

“Deathwheels. I like it. Hey, you can be my bodyguard, too.” Fang elbowed him playfully, with a clank. “I think I know where I can scavenge one of those new plasma cannons that Shockwave’s been making. Your new frame can support one, you know.”

 

With a thick, dull tone that suited a dumb minion much better than the smartest mech Fang had personally ever known, Deathwheels said dryly, “I like big cannons. Big bodyguard, big cannons, little bitty mind. Soundwave will never suspect a thing.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post shorter chapters, more often, for logistical reasons. (And reasons of keeping my writing momentum up.) Might be as often as a (shorter) chapter every day or two, depending on how much time I have, though I can't guarantee this. This means that the chapter numbers for the rebooted story will _not_ correspond to the chapter numbers for the original.

Three days later, Fang stepped out of his lair and into the Nemesis’s hall with a looming, silent, shadow walking close to his heels. They proceeded down the hall, up a lift, and down a second passage to the main rec. Fang was a frequent visitor to the rec; it let him keep tabs on the other mecha, make useful alliances, and earn popularity points by losing at card games. (Fang did not have anything resembling poker face, except when he  _ wanted  _ to have a poker face. In other words, he deliberately lost just enough that the other players liked to see him coming.)

 

The rec, of course, tended to be a fairly rough and tumble place. Fangface fit in nicely by being more rough and tumble than what he privately considered “the natives” --  they  might think of him as one of them, but in his mind, Fang was far more civilized. He was just great at acting out whatever role was required of him. 

 

Anyone who thought they could harass Fang simply by virtue of his (lack of) size quickly found out otherwise. Fang not only could defend himself, he had  friends . 

 

He-who-was-formerly-known-as-Scurry, by contrast, was not a social mech. The minicons had their own unofficial rec room, in a storage closet down on deck five, because the bigger mecha tormented them. Fang moved fluidly between worlds but he didn’t think he’d ever seen Scurry in either rec. 

 

“Who’s ‘e?” Skywarp was the first to notice Fang’s new outsized shadow. 

 

The normally boisterous rec room fell silent. Skywarp was loud. New faces were unusual.

 

Fang gestured at his favorite minion. “Who, him? Pet project of mine. Spark of an insecticon, body of a brute. The, uh, spark-processor interface is still a work in progress, but I thought I’d take the big lunk out for walkies.”

 

Skywarp, predictably, was the first one to say something. “Oooh, he’s cute. Can I play with him?”

 

“No, you may not  play  with him.” Fang grinned, despite how much that request secretly bothered him. In the sweetest voice he could manage with his deep baritone he said, “I’m so sorry, ‘Warp. I’ve got a nice datapad you can borrow, though ...”

 

Skywarp growled and instantly attacked, which Fangface had not actually been expecting. While Fangface’s comments had definitely been insulting, half the ‘con army routinely accused the other half of various unnatural acts with office equipment. The proper response was to return the insult with interest, not resort to a physical attack. Skywarp was nothing if not unpredictable, however, and he lunged at Fangface so fast that Fang didn’t have a chance to dance away.  


 

Fang reacted with instinct that had been honed by eons of war. Skywarp snatched him up by one arm. Fang bit Skywarp’s wrist so hard that he heard the strut snap. Skywarp tried to drop him, but the human saying, “Like trying to let go of a wildcat,” applied here. Fang buried his claws in Skywarp’s shoulder, yanked himself up ‘Warp’s frame, latched onto Skywarp’s throat with his teeth in a grip that could have been far more damaging than it was (Hook deducted those oh-so-useful brownie points if you sent too many badly injured mecha his way) and then raked his hind feet down the seeker’s wing. He did this so fast that even Cybertronian optics could barely follow the action. 

 

Thundercracker barely had time to lunge to his feet, upending a card table in the process, before Skywarp finally got a firm hold on Fang, ripped him loose, and somewhat frantically threw him across the room. Fangface twisted in the air, intending to land on his feet, but a wall got in his way. He slammed into it hip-first, with an audible crack. 

 

Skywarp was in no shape to follow up; energon poured down his chest from a deep gash in his throat, and trickled from the gouges in his wing. 

 

Thundercracker snarled, “You  _ idiot _ !” at his partner, and put himself between Fangface and Skywarp. 

 

Fang, in a world of hurt, still noticed that protective gesture. Unlike Skywarp, Thundercracker was nobody’s fool. If Fangface had been out to kill, Skywarp would be dead now. Thundercracker could just as easily die at Fang’s claws. Yet Thundercracker was willing to protect him.

 

Interesting.

 

Fangface, teeth gritted firmly together, picked himself up off the floor. He showed no sign of pain, other than a few autonomic reflexes that most mecha would miss. With a low, angry, rumble, Fang snarled, “I came here to  _ have fun _ .”

 

Furious, he spun about on the heel of his good leg and tried to stomp out. Unfortunately, there was a Starscream-shaped obstacle in his way. He came up short, with every one of his combat routines firing up. Skywarp was one thing; Starscream was quite another. Fang didn’t know if he could survive a fight with the Air Commander, particularly with a badly damaged hip. A little known fact about Starscream was that he was nearly as good a fighter on the ground as he was in the air. Without the element of surprise, they’d be evenly matched, and Fang didn’t like fair fights at all.

 

“What is going on in here?” Starscream demanded, even as Deathwheel's systems came online with a sharp hum right behind Fang. Fang, barely, avoided jumping. While he had friends, he wasn't used to having an actual bodyguard. Particularly one willing to take on Starscream.  


 

Twenty mecha all tried to answer at once. Fang, however, kept his mouth shut. 

 

Starscream’s already beady optics narrowed even more. His voice was strident and sharp and cut through the sound of the babbling crowd with ease. He demanded, “ _ Thundercracker? Report! _ ”

 

Fangface would have given an optic and been happy to look like Ravage for the rest of his natural life if he could have that sort of 'command voice.'

 

Thundercracker heaved an aggrieved sigh. “Skywarp assaulted Captain Fangface, with predictable results.”

 

Starscream glowered, as if it was all Thundercracker’s fault. Fangface exhaled a small, hopefully-secret, vent of relief. Starscream’s logic often wasn’t, err, logical, but he wasn’t going to question the unexpected reprieve. Starscream demanded, “Dare I ask  _ why ?” _

 

“I wouldn’t recommend it, no,” Thundercracker’s answer was candidly honest, and caused every mech but Fang, Starscream, and Skywarp to laugh.

 

“ You ,” Unfortunately, Starscream wasn’t at all amused. He pointed a clawed finger at Thundercracker, “Are supposed to keep our glitchwitted trinemate out of trouble. This is as much  your  fault as it is Skywarp’s.” 

 

“Star ...” Thundercracker had a lot of sigh in his voice. 

 

“To be fair,” Fangface said, prompted to speak mostly out of a desire to keep himself in Thundercracker’s good regard, “Thundercracker was across the room. Skywarp was on me before TC had time to react.”

 

Starscream grunted acknowledgement of that. Then he pointed at the hall. “Fang, with me, please.”

 

With some trepidation, Fangface followed Starscream down the hall. Deathwheels lumbered after them, a large and looming presence on their heels, causing Starscream look back and comment, “Since when do you have a pet goon?”

 

“That’s Deathwheels.” Fang jerked his thumb over his shoulder. He was somewhat relieved that Starscream didn't seem to mind Deathwheel's presence. On the other hand, Starscream's null rays were a great equalizer. The seeker was not intimidated by mere size, and probably wouldn't have blinked if Death had been three or four times his current size.   


 

“What did you do, reformat one of your runts?” Starscream indicated Deathwheels with a contemptuous flick of one wing.   


 

“Tcha! And here I thought Soundwave was the telepath, not you. How did you ever guess?”

 

Starscream snorted something that might have been a laugh. “Didn’t think you needed a goon, but if he makes you happy,” the seeker leered, “whatever, have fun with him. And thank you for not killing my trine mate. He’s dumb as a box of rocks, but he’s a useful box of rocks.”

 

“I know the feeling.” Fangface smirked. He didn’t correct Starscream’s assumption about Deathwheel’s primary function. He and Death would have a good laugh about it later. 

 

Starscream glanced back at the big, silent, mech following them. “You should have given your pet wings.”

 

“I’m not sure he’s got enough functioning circuits to handle flight, and I don’t have the time to fix him if he crashes himself.”

 

“Ah, that’s a shame. Still, there’s something to be said for dumb, loyal, minions.”

 

“He is loyal,” Fangface agreed. 

 

“You know,” Starscream said, thoughtfully, “we could equip your frame with wings. It wouldn’t add  that  much weight, and I know  _ you  _ have the neural circuits to understand flight.”

 

Fang shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, Starscream, but I can’t do my primary function if my balance is off. Wings would definitely throw it off. But -- you know, I have been wanting to learn to fly. Maybe a compromise?”

 

The seeker snorted, easily following this train of thought. “What, you want to learn to fly airplanes like a human?”

 

“It would give me greater mobility.”

 

To describe Starscream’s expression as dubious would be generous. 

 

Fangface persisted, knowing if he pleased Starscream, the seeker would be easier to work with.  “And ... and I think I’d enjoy learning. I’ve longed to fly, Starscream, I really have.”

 

“Perhaps we could design you an external wingset, with rockets.” 

 

“A jet pack?” Drat, he sounded skeptical. It was always best to agree with whatever crazy idea Starscream came up with, even if it sounded completely suicidal. Odds are, Starscream would get distracted by a newer, shinier, idea in short order. 

 

(Fangface, whose self preservation skills were highly developed, truly had absolutely nothing to do with the, “Oh, look, a chicken!” sticker that had appeared on Starscream’s door late one evening. He had, however, found it highly amusing, at least partly because he got the reference. As Vermin said, he resembled that comment. Starscream, however, had  not  gotten the reference, had assumed the sticker was a slur on his flying abilities, and had gone on a rampage that had spanned the length and the breadth of the Nemesis. The culprit had been Skywarp, who  also  resembled that comment, and in retaliation Starscream had shredded Skywarp’s wings with more thoroughness than Fang.) 

 

Oblivious to Fang’s thoughts (and the cackling of Vermin in Fang’s head; apparently, thinking about him summoned him) Starscream said, “A jet pack with wings. You weigh so little that it should be entirely possible.” 

 

Starscream was now positively cheery about this idea. He continued, “I’ll see what I can come up with. I like you, Fang, but it’s embarrassing that one of  my  mecha needs to be  carried  into combat.”

 

Fang, who secretly viewed flying under his own power with about as much enthusiasm as he would diving into a pit of molten metal slag, nodded happily. “I would much appreciate that, boss.”

 

If Starscream didn’t get distracted by a New Shiny in the next few days, Fang would  find  a way to distract him. Maybe he’d tell Starscream about the dead Primes rather than tell Hook. Fang was deeply afraid that if Starscream strapped a pair of wings and a rocket to his back, the end result would be like something out of a Loony Tunes cartoon, with Fang starring as Wile. E.. While the mental image was amusing (Vermillion Prime was outright cackling at it), it would  hurt  and it would mean he would have to cash in any brownie points he’d earned with Hook. It would be much more efficient just to avoid flight!failure in the first place.

 

Starscream, unaware of Fang’s actual reluctance (and unaware of the dead Prime who was now rifling through Fang’s memories and rapidly transferring Loony Tunes to the Matrix, with giggles of distracting glee), added cheerfully, “I’ll try to have it ready for you when you get back from South America.”

 

Fang nodded shortly, and thought vile thoughts at the Prime, who ignored him. The bulk of his troops -- who numbered about two hundred minicons -- was stationed at an energon mine in Brazil. From Fang’s standpoint, it kept them out from underfoot on the Nemesis, and it let him pick and choose the best of the lot for his hand-picked and assembled teams. “I'm going to take some of my troops with me when I go to inspect the mine. I want to do some training exercises with them, and I also want to swap some staff around. A few of the miners are showing some real promise -- plus one of my mechlings is sharp enough that I’d like to get him a leadership track. I'm going to put him in charge of the mine's security detail and see how he does.”

 

Starscream’s expression was extremely disinterested. Starscream pointedly avoided getting involved in minicon staffing issues unless something went wrong. Fang was counting on this, and was pleased when Starscream cut the discussion short. “I’ll have Astrotrain give you and your staff a lift. Can you be ready to go later today?”

  
His hip hurt like someone had poured hot molten slag into the socket. He nodded cheerfully. “Sure, boss.”

 

"Good. Best get you off the ship until Skywarp cools down; he tends to get revenge if he thinks he has a chance to do it without getting his aft handed to him. I'd rather you didn't need to beat him up for a second time -- Hook gets cranky."  


 

"I certainly don't want Hook mad at me."

 

"Oh, Hook wouldn't be mad at you. Skywarp's my trinemate, and I'm responsible for his stupidity." Starscream rolled his optics. "Pit knows he's not smart enough to be responsible for _himself_." 

 

"Err. I'll try to do him a little less damage next time."  


 

"I _would_ appreciate that." Starscream's smile bared many teeth, and a little bit of a threat. "He's a moron, but he's my moron. And -- he wasn't always an idiot."

 

"Processor damage?"

 

Starscream folded his arms across his chest and looked up and down the hall. "No," he said, voice low. "Megatron had his processor throttled. Thundercracker says you suggested he 'face with a datapad. Word of advice -- unless you're looking for a fight with him, don't use that insult again. It's a bad trigger for him. Has to do with the fact he _has_ been hacked, and mentioning that ... well. It triggers the response you saw."

 

"Oh. _Oh_." Fang huffed a sigh. "Got it. Won't do it again."

 

Fangface, who had been an experimental test subject, knew _exactly_ how unpleasant it was to have a dumb machine hack one's processor. It hurt, and it was terribly violating, and he most certainly 'got' 

 

Starscream patted him on the top of the head. "Thank you, Fangface. I'm glad I've got at least one officer who doesn't cause me any drama."  

 

After Starscream had moved off, Fangface wiped a hand over the top of his head, as if to remove unseen contamination. He _hated_ it when larger mecha patted him on the top of the head. "C'mon, Death. Let's go round our troops up."

 

Deathwheels commented, "I didn't think you liked Starscream."

 

Fang lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I don't. I don't think he likes me, either. But we find each other very, very, useful."


	4. Chapter 4

The jungle was wet and green, muddy, and noisy with the buzz of insects and the cries of birds and monkeys. Astrotrain shuddered with distaste as Fangface disembarked from his hold.

 

“Pick us up tomorrow,” Fangface reminded him, “and if you forget, you lose your best poker buddy.”

 

“I’m not playing poker with you if you stink like this place,” Astrotrain growled at him.

 

“I’ll hit the washracks before tomorrow before you arrive. I promise.” Fang snickered, though he honestly didn’t mind the smell of the jungle. He’d spent a lot more time on organic worlds; he was built for it. Astrotrain, by design, had lived most of his life in the vacuum of space. Vacuum, by definition, had no odor.

 

The mud on the other hand ... he liked that a lot less than the aroma of the place. Fang’s damaged hip protested mightily when he tried to walk on the sloppy, uneven, slick-as-grease surface. He stumbled, then turned the stumble into a graceful transformation to alt mode. He lashed his tail, pinned his ears, and tried to give off as much of an, ‘I meant to do that!’ vibe as possible. “See you tomorrow, buddy.”

 

Astrotrain growled something that might have been obscene, or might have just been a glitch in his vocalizer, and rolled off towards the end of the runway. Fang’s mob of minicons scattered out of his way, as Astrotrain would have run over them if they hadn’t. Fang waited until he gone to revert back to root mode and carefully stand up. He refused to limp.

 

Deathwheels leaned over and murmured, “Do you want me to look at that hip when we get somewhere private?”

 

He could hide his injury from most of the crew, but not from Deathwheels, who was far too perceptive. The rest of his team also knew he was hurt, because he couldn’t completely hide the limp all the time, but they didn’t know how bad it was. Deathwheels was well aware that Fang was very good at hiding injuries, and habitually did so, and therefore he probably suspected the damage was severe.

 

“It’s beyond anything you can fix, Minion Mine,” Fang sighed, then nibbled at one claw tip. "I know you're good, but you're not a frame surgeon."

 

He’d already scanned the damage himself. The socket was cracked. The exotic alloy that comprised his struts and armor could not be welded, and there was no good replacement. Duryllium reacted to his trans-titanium alloy electrolytically, and that resulted in rapid and painful corrosion. He would need to find enough of the metal to machine a new one, or allow his auto-repair to fix it. The former would require a McGuffin Hunt to Cybertron, and they were so far from home that the trip would take orns. He didn't _have_ orns, even if Megatron would have approved his absence for that long. The latter, he was deeply afraid, would require complete immobilization of the joint for weeks. Every time he took a step, the cracked sides of the socket moved, ruining any work his auto-repair managed.

 

He didn’t even have time to spend days or weeks in his quarters, and he couldn’t risk being seen in public with a brace. The type of brace required meant he would need to be carried, since it would immobilize his entire leg, and he had absolutely no desire to ride around in Deathwheel's arms like a sparkling. Furthermore, he really didn’t want his fellow Decepticons knowing any of his weaknesses. Decepticons tended to eat their own, even their own best poker buddies.

 

Death rested a hand on his shoulder. “I hate to see you hurting.”

 

He ducked out from under that overlarge hand, using the pretext of bending over to wipe mud from his foot. He hated being touched more than he hated the pain that bending over caused. “I’ll survive. I’ve had worse.”

 

Just not ‘worse’ when he didn’t have any blanks of metal to repair himself with. He had a few fingerstrut sized chunks in his subspace, but not enough to make an entire hip socket.

 

Deathwheels said nothing, but then, he was usually the world’s quietest mech anyway. Fang glanced up at him, wondering if his Chief Minion saw through his lies and misdirection. It was possible, but he trusted Death not to do anything with the knowledge except to use it to nannybot him half to death.

 

The mine was half a mile distant from the runway. He surveyed the mob of minicons he’d brought with him: Thirty insecticons, two very small and agile dinobots, a glitchmouse (highly unpopular with the crew, highly valued by Fang), four metallicohawk flightframes, and sixteen mechlings that were no taller than a human. It was one of the mechlings who he had an eye on as a potential officer.

 

“Amp,” he said, to the mechling in question, “take the bugs and scout out to the west. The rest of you, follow Deathwheels.”

 

 _:Sir?:_ Death questioned, clearly reluctant to part company. He was, apparently, taking his cover story as “bodyguard” more seriously than Fang had intended.

 

_:This is a training exercise, Deathwheels. If anyone frags my aft on a training exercise with a bunch of minicons, I deserved it. And the runts know who you really are. They need to get used to following your orders in this frame.:_

“What are we scouting for?” Amp -- Amplitude -- asked.

 

 _“... Me.”_ Fangface broke into a run with that declaration, transformed on the fly, and disappeared into the dense underground. He shouted back, “The goal is to stop me from getting to the mine. See your sorry afts there!”

 

Only when he was out of sight did he allow himself to hold his injured leg up and run on his good three limbs. He did that for a few strides, then realized that the others would be tracking him and the better trackers in the lot could tell if he was three-legged lame. With teeth gritted, he forced himself to use the leg normally.

 

What other choice did he have?

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Fang had let Amp’s team surround him twice. The insecticon strike team was coming along nicely, and he wanted the encourage them with a few successes. None of the mecha were larger than a large Earth dog, but they were formidably tough and well armed. They would be an effective team of saboteurs, even against well-defended military assets.

 

Amp was proving just as skilled as Fang expected, too. Fang didn’t believe in separation by frametype. The insecticons disagreed. While Fang was secretly watching from high in a tree, Amp had kicked a couple bugs’ afts (though very small, the kid had been studying Circuit Su on his own time, and the bugs ... hadn't), then the mechling got them aimed in the right direction, and had even encouraged a few weaker members of the team into giving their all. While Fang could have eluded them, he let them have the victory. Amp, and the insecticons, had earned it.

 

Despite the pain in his hip, he was feeling good. It was always a boost to his morale when his troops did well. Fang sent them on to the mine, and turned his attention to Deathwheels’s team.

 

Death was a skilled analyst, and a moderately talented tactician. He’d sent the hawks up trees, rather than having them circle overhead, even though circling was their natural inclination. Fang was well known for his skills with the laser rifle mounted to his tail, and he would “kill” troops who let themselves be seen openly with a nonlethal, but armor-searing, blast from it. (The Autobots would be less kind.)

 

The dinobots were stalking through the jungle on either side of a creek, in a clear attempt to drive him towards a trap set by the mechlings. Deathwheels, meanwhile, brought up the rear, noisily crashing through the trees.

 

None of them had spotted Fang, who was up a tree of his own, wedged into a deep cleft, armor nanytes shifted from their usual snazzy matte silver and black to a camouflage black and dark brown pattern. When Deathwheels had lumbered by, bringing up the rear, Fang slid down the tree trunk. The birds spotted him, and raised a noisy and raucous alert over both the radio and aloud, but it was too late. Two swift leaps took Fang to Death’s back. He leaped aloft, caught Death by one “tire-bun” on one side of the mech’s head, swung his entire body over the big mech’s shoulder, and lightly rested one heavily clawed and powerful back foot over Death’s spark.

 

“Gotcha,” Fang said ... just as agony exploded through his frame. Every sensor whited out, every breaker tripped, every motor circuit and hydraulic pump spasmed, all simultaneously. He hit the ground, unable to see or move, with static howling from his vocalizer.

 

After a moment, the shock -- and it was indeed the result of an electric shock to his neural circuits -- faded. Fang blinked his optics, ascertained he wasn’t under continued attack, and let his systems reset themselves. When he could see, think, and move, he discovered that Deathwheels was crouched over him.

 

Ohm, the glitchmouse, was perched on Deathwheel’s shoulder. The slagging little nuisance said, verly clearly, “Meep!” and disappeared into a safe spot under Deathwheel’s armor.

 

“Nicely played,” Fang said, even though internally he was furious. Deathwheels had made him look like a fool.

 

 **Actually,** Vermin said, **he just taught your troops an important lesson -- that even the most formidable warriors can be brought down by the smallest of mecha.**

Teeth gritted, hip worse than ever, Fang rose. “Very good job. Ohm, see me tomorrow -- I want to talk to you about applications of that talent of yours.”

 

 

It was a useful talent. Unfortunately, most glitchmice were not reliable and were therefore of little use. Ohm followed directions well, and perhaps Fang could train him into a nicely deadly surprise. Fang's primary, original, function was as an assassin and saboteur. He could certainly see the benefit of having a little buddy like Ohm tagging along on his missions.

 

“Meeeeep!” Ohm bounced eagerly back into view. He leaped from Death’s arm to Fang’s shoulder and hugged Fang.

 

“Ack. Seriously, Ohm?” Fang caught him by one back leg, pulled him loose, and held the glitchmouse suspended in the air in front of his optics by that single leg. “Don’t do that. What are you, a sparkling?”

 

The glitchmouse nodded enthusiastically.

 

“Slag.” Fang hadn’t asked how old the little fragger was when he’d picked him out of a labor pool of noncombatants. He'd just seen that the glitchmouse had organized the other maintenance mecha into an effective team of janitors, and had decided that _this_ mouse was different than the others and had some people skills he could use. Well ... it was war, and sometimes even sparklings had to learn to fight.

 

 **Seriously, Fang?**  Vermillion sounded deeply, deeply, disapproving.

 

 _:How old do you think I was when I went into battle the first time?:_ Fang replied, acidly. _:I was considered disposable. They didn’t even expect me to return.:_

 

Vermillion was silent, though the Matrix itself seemed to be radiating concern.

 

_:Hey, at least I don’t consider my troops disposable.:_

 

The Matrix did not like this answer.

 

_:I thought you weren’t going to be my Jiminy.:_

 

**There has never been a Prime born who would tolerate the mistreatment of sparklings, save the Fallen.**

 

The disapproval didn’t lesson one iota. Fang, who had lost more than one sparkling with great potential, and who found the comparison to the Fallen to be downright insulting, snarled silently at the Matrix, and the Primes. Fang did what was necessary, he mourned those he lost, and he refused to feel guilty. He was not feeling guilty. He wasn’t!

 

He sighed, dropped the sparkling into his free hand, and patted him on the head. Ohm flattened his ears and tensed at the touch, and Fang frowned. He didn't mean anything by the pat except a bit of affection. Sparklings, he knew, liked to be touched, even if Fang didn't, and he was willing to grit his teeth and pet them when needed, to make them feel better. So what was Ohm's glitch about being touched, anyway? Fang only meant it as a comforting gesture.

 

 

He tried again, and informed the child soldier, “You did a good job, Ohm. And I think it bears noting that this is a prime example of how even the smallest, youngest, and most fragile of us can take down the most mighty of warriors. Know your strengths, know the skills of your teammates, and use them. It will save your sparks, and someday, lead us to victory against our enemies. Any questions?”

 

 

Ohm, now that Fang wasn't patting him on the head, brightened up, and grinned at Fang.

 

Death held his hand up.

 

“Yes, Deathwheels?”

 

“You’re not mad at me for beating you?” This came out thick, dull, and slow. Deathwheels wasn’t asking because he was worried about Fang’s temper. Deathwheels just wanted to emphasize to the others that Fang, unlike many Decepticon commanders, wasn’t prone to taking his anger out on his troops.

 

“Oh, I’m furious.” He bared his impressive canines in a feral grin. His tone made his troops laugh. “But I’m also very, very, pleased. Good job, Death.”

 

 

* * *

 

Fang had quarters in the mine complex. He made a point of having a private space just for himself (and his closest and most trusted minions -- which was currently Deathwheels, and Death alone, since his other minions had been killed off over the last few vorns) wherever he was stationed. After sending his elite squad of minicons off to “survey” the mine for any “infiltrators” (and also to find any contraband that might have made it into the mine in his absence, a job Amplitude took more seriously than Fang did), Fang gratefully padded into private rooms. As soon as the door slid shut after Deathwheels and Fang, Fang allowed himself to favor his injured leg.

 

Death frowned when he saw Fang limping. “Sorry about zapping you.”

 

“Yeah, about that ...” Fangface let a bit of his irritation into his voice, then squelched it. He bit back sharp, barbed words, and said instead, “that was very well handled, Death. I think the runts learned something. I wasn’t aware Ohm was a sparkling, though.”

 

“He’s about twenty operational years old. More of a youngling than a sparkling.” Deathwheels shrugged. He always knew more personal details about the troops than Fang did, and not for lack of Fang’s trying. Fang had never figured that out. Fang was the social one, but Death knew them. “None of them have the luxury of being children, not anymore. And his age is in his personnel file.”

 

“Yes, I suppose.” Fang hadn't checked Ohm's resume, he'd just promoted the mech from 'janitor' to 'soldier' based on his behavior. Decepticon personnel files tended to be misleading, anyway, with frequently inaccurate information.

 

“Fang, you do more for them than any other officer.” Death crouched down, and looked Fangface in the optics. “Captain Fangface, you are not perfect, but you are the best we’ve got, and we love you for it. Not many Decepticon officers can claim they are loved by their staff.”

 

He sighed. “Sometimes I’m not sure I’ve earned it, Death.”

 

Deathwheels rested both hands on Fang’s shoulders. “Look at me, boss. Don’t go all melancholy on me. We don’t have time for it. He’s a kid, yeah, but how many glitchmice work for someone who cares? Most mecha just think they’re useless little vermin, with a really bad sting. At best, they’re used like cleaning drones. Pit, that’s how I thought about them, until you taught me better. And it's not like insecticons are much more respected than glitchmice. I should have realized the same types of prejudices applied to Ohm as to me."

 

Fangface tensed at the contact.

 

Deathwheels, feeling Fang’s tension, didn’t retreat. Instead, he squeezed Fang’s shoulders gently. “You put on a good act, don’t you?”

 

“Wh ... what? What are you talking about?”

 

“You. I’m talking about you. You’re scared, aren’t you?”

 

“What? No!”

 

“Then how come every time I touch you, you flinch away?” Deathwheels let go, though he didn’t move away. “Fang, I’m sorry. I just worry that you’re scared of me, and you shouldn’t be. I’d never, ever, do anything to hurt you.”

 

“I know that.”

 

Deathwheels still looked hurt, however -- and he was also crouched so close that Fang could feel the warmth from his exhaust fans. Fang knew that Deathwheel’s loyalty was a precious thing; the mech was brilliant, and particularly after his upgrade to a much larger frame, he could find any one of a number of benefactors. Logically, he knew that he needed to sooth Death’s hurt feelings. He told himself that Death had never behaved inappropriately; Death was touchy-feely, but he was that way with everyone. Pit, he'd just let a  _glitchmouse_ ride under his armor. Fang’s distaste for being touched by others, particularly those larger than him, was a personal issue that dated back to his own childhood.

 

He had good reasons for hating the touch of others, but Death didn’t know that.

 

Fangface set his jaw, summoned up every bit of stubborn courage he possessed, and rested a hand on Deathwheel’s chest, right over his spark. “I trust you, Deathwheels. I really do. More than that, I need you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

 

That was all true.

 

Deathwheel’s normally scowling expression lit up with a thousand watt grin. Fang, barely, kept himself from fighting free when Death abruptly hugged him. He did yelp, because the sudden change in position hurt his hip.

 

“Slag slag slag!” Deathwheels let go of him abruptly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ... here, you should lay down.”

 

“Deathwheels!” Fang protested, somewhat indignantly, as the bigger mech scooped him up. “Owe! That hurts!”

 

Only barely did he keep his claws sheathed. Deathwheels, gentler now, carried him to his berth and set him down on it. The big mech then sat down on the edge, beside him, and rested a hand on the side of Fang’s face. “You should rest. You’re working too hard and your leg needs time to heal.”

 

“Tcha! I don’t have time!”

 

“You do have time, because you have me. Relax, boss. Take some time for yourself. You need it. You deserve it. I will make the rounds of the troops for you.”

 

Fang huffed, and started to push himself upright.

 

“Fangface,” Deathwheel’s voice turned teasing. “Don’t make me get mad at you. You don’t want me mad at you. You really, really, don’t.”

 

He laughed. Deathwheels, mad, had a tendency to pout. And resting his leg did sound good. He slumped back on the berth. “Okay. But I want a full report on all the issues you see, and your recommendations for fixing them, first thing in the morning. And take Amplitude with you. Let him be your voice, ask the questions, all that slag. You play the dumb goon -- that’s such a good cover for you, and the fewer mecha who know the truth, the better. It’ll also give Amp a chance to make himself known to the miners.”

 

“Will do, boss.” Deathwheel’s smile was brilliant. He gripped Fang’s shoulder, squeezed it gently a couple of times, patted his arm, and then headed for the door.

 

Perhaps ... perhaps he could get used to being touched, if Death was going to smile at him like that on a regular basis. That smile, Fang knew, was just for him. To the rest of the world, Deathwheels was a quiet, stoic, no-nonsense soldier with no sense of humor. It felt truly wonderful to be the special person that Deathwheels smiled for.

 

 **See something you like?** Vermillion asked, after Death had left.

 

Fangface sputtered static aloud. He’d been aware that the Prime was watching -- the mecha’s aura was impossible to miss -- but he still wasn’t used to Vermillion speaking up in what should have been Fang’s most private space, his own head.

 

_:No! It’s not ... it’s not like that between us.:_

 

**Ah. Good.**

 

Fang was left wondering why Vermillion thought it was ‘good’ that he _wasn’t_ in an intimate relationship with Deathwheels. When he asked, however, the Prime had already gone, and this time, thinking of him did not summon him.

  
_:You are a most contrary old rusty crankcase,:_ Fang thought acidly, about the Prime, but only when he was sure Vermillion was not listening.


	5. Chapter 5

 

“Hey Boss?” Amp trotted after him, on the way up into Astrotrain’s hold.

 

“What’s up, Amp?” Fang hitched himself up into a jump seat, and patted its neighbor, indicating Amplitude should join him. “Buckle up.”

 

Amp didn’t need to be told twice; Astrotrain had a busy schedule, and between that and the shuttle’s naturally cantankerous attitude, his rides were often fast and very rough. He pulled the straps down, swiftly adjusted them for his tiny human-sized frame, and pulled them tight. Only after he was secure did Amp say, “So I was talking to Deathwheels.”

 

Fang glanced down the passenger bay at Death, who was parked in alt mode and lashed down for the flight. Deathwheels, for all his lack of reaction to Amp’s invocation of his name, might have been in recharge. He probably wasn’t, but sometimes, with Deathwheels, it was hard to tell. Fangface finally said, “Go ahead?”

 

Deathwheels wasn’t a chatty mech. He didn’t do casual conversation. Fang found himself unaccountably anxious about what the discussion might have entailed. He was not, he told himself firmly, jealous that Deathwheels would talk to another mech. Death had a job to do, and that did involve conversations with Fang’s other officers or officers-in-training.

 

“He said he’d teach me stuff, if I made myself useful.”

 

“What kind of stuff, and what kind of useful?” Fangface ruthlessly suppressed his initial reaction, which was to declare, _Mine, Don't Touch!_

 

“His kind of stuff.”

 

Deathwheels was supposed to be a dumb minion. Fang gave Amp kudos for remembering that, and not mentioning Deathwheel’s other function in Astrotrain’s hold. Astrotrain was a huge gossip.

 

“And what kind of useful?” Fang repeated, both optic ridges rising.

 

“I, uh, I dunno. I offered to clean his quarters, but he said he didn’t need any help there.”

 

“Probably not, Death is pathologically neat and would probably just redo anything you cleaned anyway.”

 

Amp giggled, clearly delighted at being included in a bit of teasing at Deathwheel’s defense. Death, for his part, remained silent, but Fangface expected nothing less.

 

“Tell you what. Death cleans my quarters and my lab, because neatness just isn’t one of my spark traits. He’s got a lot of other duties, though, and it’s really a lot to ask of him to be my maid, too. So if you’re willing to pick up after me, then you can study with him.”

 

“Thank you!” A huge grin split Amp’s face.

 

“Mind you,” Fang said, for Astrotrain’s benefit, “being my enforcer is hard work, and the other minicons will hate you. You’ll need to beat them down occasionally, and kick their afts until they mind, and there’s the whole torture thing that you sometimes need to do to get them to behave ... Deathwheels will need to teach you a lot about how to inflict pain on other mecha, because, you know, that’s the best way to get minicons to obey.”

 

Amplitude, who was totally in on the joke, snorted. “I pulled Chitter’s wings off yesterday, didn’t I?”

 

Actually, Chitter was Amp’s best friend. The insecticon mine boss remained back at the mine. Fang had seen Amp curled up in dark corner with Chitter, engaged in an activity that was very, very, far from torture.

 

“Yes,” Fang said, “and I imagine after what you did with him yesterday, you’ll have no trouble counting on Chitter’s loyalty.”

 

Amp, who probably had not been aware that Fang had seen them, ducked his head. “You don’t mind that I ... tortured ... him? You knew about that?”

 

“I didn’t mind, and I did know. I know everything, runt. And as far as I’m concerned, insecticons are a pain in the butt to work with. Any ... tactics ... you can use to get them to work with you, you should employ.”

 

There. Let Astrotrain make of that what he would.

 

 

* * *

 

As she turned into the dorm's parking lot, Mikaela spotted Bumblebee immediately. Bee, in Camero form, stood out among the usual student assortment of vehicles. There were wealthy students, and some of them drove expensive cars, but few of those kids would have bought a Camero. They either drove big-ass lifted pickups that Mikaela mentally lumped in the category of, "Vehicles that are compensating for the owner's inadequacies," or they drove zoomy little convertibles that she tagged as "can't get a girl any other way" cars. The rest of the kids owned clunkers, one of which - an ancient '78 Thunderbird - was parked immediately next to the Camero. The number of students driving sports cars like the Camero were few, and none of those vehicles were neon yellow.

 

Bee's cheery paint was a splash of sunshine amid a sea of white, silver, black, muted gold, maroon, and subdued blues and greens.

 

She parked her own car several spaces down from Bee - her wheels were forty-plus year old primer-grey Mustang that she'd recently picked up at auction. She was restoring ot for resale. Quite honestly, Mikaela was a bit surprised that the Mustang had made it all the way from the shop to the college without breaking down - she had a box of tools and a starter in the back seat, because she knew the starter was going bad, and God knew what else was wrong with the old heap. She'd had to whack the starter this morning with a hammer to get the Mustang moving.

 

 

At least starter-abuse was easy enough, as the Mustang had no hood at the moment. She'd removed it for sanding. The rear window was just a sheet of clear plastic attached with duct tape. The front window had a crack, too, and she heartily hoped no cop spotted that before she got a chance to replace it.

 

She'd paid a hundred bucks for the Mustang. Aside from a plethora of repairs, it needed rust cut out and she wasn't real sure about the integrity of the motor mounts, but - bad spot on the starter aside, it did run - and she figured she could turn a profit on it with a lot of elbow grease and some junkyard crawling.

 

She envied Sam purely on a practical level and thought he'd been nuts to tell Bumblebee to stay . Bumblebee was never going to break down by the side of the road. Sam didn't have to pay for gas at $3 a gallon for a vehicle that got seven miles to the gallon (and, currently, about seven miles to the quart of oil - she had a case of Valvoline in the trunk). Plus, it was _Bee_. Mikaela would have given her right arm to have Bumblebee following around after her like an overgrown bright yellow puppy.

 

Bee played a clip of "My Girl" as she walked over. He popped the driver's side door in clear invitation to stop and visit. Likely, he was bored and glad for some company, and his cheery, flirtatious greeting made her laugh. She swung herself easily into the driver's seat. "Hey, Bee."

 

"Mikaela, hi!" he sounded excited. The mere presence of his voice made her grin. His voice box was working for once. It had to drive Bee crazy to randomly lose his ability to speak, given that he generally had a comment for anything and everything when it worked. "Wanna go for a spin? Sam's in class for the next couple of hours."

 

"Aren't you supposed to be his bodyguard?" It seemed out of character for Bee not to take that duty seriously. He'd lived in Sam's garage for almost a year, after all, with only _one_ incident -- now called the Great Toaster War -- where he'd actually, arguably, been needed. (Mikaela was privately of the opinion that she could have dealt with the Mutant Ninja Kitchen Appliances the same way she had Wheelie.)

 

"It's Arcee's shift," Bee explained. "And she kicks aft. She's guarding both entrances to the lecture hall. Sam won't be out of class for four hours."

 

"Bored, huh?" She said, knowingly.

 

"Completely and totally. Sam even has Wheelie with him right now, per Optimus's orders, so I don't even have him for company. I'm all alone out here. But hey! We kicked Decepticon tails yesterday," he informed her, with what sounded like glee. "Took out a couple hundred insecticons. We missed their boss -- some sort of large predacon -- by about an hour, but we got  _all_ the little creeps. It was quite a raid!"

 

She groaned appreciatively at the pun. Raid. Insecticons. Raid. Right. "You swatted them, huh?"

 

"They were bugging us," Bee said, mock-defensively.

 

"Defeating them has to sting Megatron's ego."

 

Bee laughed outright, "This Bee loves stinging Megatron!"

 

She snickered. Then she sobered. "Bee, I've missed you. You know that, right? I've spent all fricking week dealing with drama with my Dad. Aside from the fact that he's drinking again, he wants me to break off all contact with you and Sam. He says it's too dangerous. He says you're scary evil aliens and you're going to kidnap me and ..."

 

"I'm sorry." Bee sounded genuinely upset, which didn't surprise her. Bee's sensitivity had been a bit of a surprise in the beginning, when she'd thought of them as very advanced robots. Somewhere along the line they'd just become friends, and people, and if they were made of silicon and steel rather than water and carbon, who cared? "Do you think it would help if I spoke to him? I really wish he'd treat you better. And treat himself better."

 

"Probably wouldn't help." She sighed. Bee talking to her dad, while the thought was amusing, was not a good idea. "He'd probably shoot you with a twelve gauge. And somebody might get hurt by the ricochets." It went without saying that a shotgun wasn't going to do much damage to an Autobot.

 

"Felons are not allowed to own guns, right?" Bee sounded genuinely irritated

 

"That's right!" She huffed a sigh. "I tell you, drama. And it's my gun, but he's swiped it. If his parole officer knew, they'd send him to jail."

 

"You own a gun, Mikaela?" Bee sounded both impressed and pleased. She'd never mentioned the weapon to him - she'd been halfway afraid he might disapprove. Bee could be ferociously protective. But then again, for all his warmth and self-deprecating humor, at his core he was a warrior and his own weapons of choice were integrated with his forearms and had a caliber big enough that she'd seen him clean mud out of the barrels by sticking multiple fingers into them during a pause in a fight. Perhaps she shouldn't have worried about his reaction to a dinky little Mossberg twelve gauge with a three-cartridge chamber.

 

She sighed again. "It wouldn't do anything against Megatron, but something Wheelie's size? I figured a face full of buckshot would slow it down plenty. Wheelie's lucky that the gun was on the other side of the room when he showed up or he might be missing both eyes. Plus, Decepticons aside, the shop's in a bad neighborhood ... there's always the human threat. And I don't like my Dad's friends much, Bee. I really don't."

 

She couldn't quite keep a pathetic quaver out of her voice as she spoke to him. She wouldn't tell this to Sam because Sam had enough on his plate and she didn't want him going all boyfriend-protective with her. This was particularly because Sam, for all that he'd just literally saved the world, wasn't exactly a fighter. Her dad's friends, or the neighborhood gangsters, or even her _dad_ , would make very short work of him. And now her father had claimed her gun for his own.

 

Bee was silent for a long moment, longer than just thinking before responding would require. She was a bit distracted and lost in morbid thoughts and didn't notice this until he said, "Mikaela, I just asked Optimus, and he agrees. We've been looking out for Sam, but you're important to us too - and Megatron could easily make a target out of you as well, either to send a message or because he knows Sam would come to your rescue no matter what the cost was. There would be no stopping Sam, and we, of course, would help him. Perhaps you need a guardian as well."

 

She blinked at him. Sometimes she almost forgot he was a robot, and when he did things like that - she assumed he'd just made a quick cell phone call - it was a startling reminder. "Oh, no, my father would absolutely flip out."

 

"Less than he would if Megatron showed up on your doorstep?" Bee pointed out. "You're three hours away, Mikaela. Four, during rush hour. Five, if there's a wreck on the highway."

 

"Is there any one 'bot who could even stand up to Megatron and hold him off that long?" she said, dispiritedly. "I guess we could run like hell. That worked great for Optimus."

 

"We could at least assist you with _running._ " He pointed this out with a wry tone in his voice.

 

"I'll ... think about it." It did sound nice, to have her very own Autobot. She loved Bee, but even though he often made time to spend with her, he was Sam's guardian and Sam's best friend. No matter what he did, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was second-best to Sam. If Sam had not been in class, Bee would have been begging for time with him. Bee made an effort to include her, too, but she still couldn't quite help feeling a little jealous.

 

"Thanks, Mikaela." Bee started his engine and rolled out, and she settled back into his comfortable seat. After a moment, Bumblebee began to play music - she blinked, thinking for a moment that he was saying something to her, but it was simply music. Of all the Autobots, he seemed to be the most in tune with human culture. She didn't recognize the musician, but the tune was soothing and the song mellow.

 

"Bee, do Autobots have music?"

 

"Of course we do."

 

"What does it sound like?" She asked, a bit uncertainly. The Autobots could be a bit wary when it came to divulging information about their own culture. Surely, this was safe, however.

 

He switched tracks, and suddenly the music filling the Camaro was richly exotic - little to her surprise, it sounded computerized, but there was harmony and melody to it, and an unearthly scale of notes that soared across a dozen octaves. She'd heard the Cybertronian language many times, often in the form of short bursts of obscenities from the 'bots, or numerical or scientific phrases that didn't translate easily into English, but it took her a moment to realize that this wasn't simply musical notes. It was words. "Is that ... singing?"

 

He waited for the song to end before answering, quietly, "That was me. Before the war began."

 

"Oh." He'd had a life before the war with the Decepticons. She'd never thought about that much. And he sounded so very sad when he said that.

 

"Bee added, "That was thousands of human lifetimes ago."

 

"Do you think the war will ever be over?" She found her words were almost as soft as his were.

 

He was quiet for so long that she didn't think he'd answer. Bee wasn't normally ever quiet, and she tightened her grip on his steering wheel in a little squeeze of comfort. When he did respond, it wasn't with words, but with that strange, soaring, alien melody again. She thought he was saying he wanted the war to end, he wanted to go back to the life he'd had before, but he didn't actually have an answer to her question. Would there be anything left for him to go back to at the end of the war? Would he survive? Perhaps there were no words to express his thoughts at the moment.

 

Then, sounding suddenly and unexpectedly cheerful, he said, "I was thinking of putting that out on the Youtube page. I just didn't know how it sounded to human ears. Guess you like it. So I will. Put in on the page, I mean. You're not covering your ears and screaming so I guess it's okay!"

 

"Youtube what?" He had a Youtube page?

 

"Optimus requested we put one up. It was, apparently, the US president's suggestion."

 

"Wait, you have a Youtube page for all the Autobots? As yourselves?" She stared incredulously at Bumblebee's radio - which was the closest thing to a face he had on the Camero's dash. It was that, or raise her eyebrows at the Autobot logo on his steering wheel. "This was okay'd by ... what? You're kidding me, Bee."

 

She wouldn't put it past him to pull her leg like that - he had a truly mischievous sense of humor - but his response was fairly serious, albeit delivered with a bit of bouncy enthusiasm. "We posted some vids of introducing ourselves! Google says we had over twelve million hits. Each." Bumblebee's laugh was infectious, she found herself grinning, and shaking her head in disbelief all at once.

 

"Isn't the military freaking out?" Inquiring minds wanted to know.

 

"Oh, sure. But the orders come from On High that we are no longer required to hide. We are, however, apparently in deep crap if any humans get hurt, or there's much property damage, that can't completely be attributed it to Megatron." He let out a low whistle. "Real high. Like all the way to the top high. Like Optimus has actually been talking directly with the US president and has his personal phone number and a very clear request that he keep the prez in the loop about Megatron. Also lots of other heads of state are working with us now, but it's his base we're living in, so we're letting your president call at least some of the shots. We like to be cooperative and it doesn't matter that much to the mission if the general public knows we exist, or not. It may actually be quite useful if they know who the good guys are - at least that way, they know which direction to run in a fight!"

 

"That's ... quite an improvement. Sure beats being captured, locked up, and dissected for the crime of existing."

 

"We like your new president lots more than the old one."

 

She sputtered a laugh at his tone, which was more than a little snarky. "I'll bet. They treating you a little warmer?"

 

Bumblebee laughed. "Yeah, things have thawed lots."

  
"That's nnnn-ice."


	6. Chapter 6

Fang’s least favorite place in the entire world was anywhere that had him in Megatron’s direct line of sight. Being called onto the carpet in front of the Decepticon warlord? Well, that made for one  _ Pit  _ of a bad day. The only thing that had kept him from fleeing in a panic for the next galaxy when Megatron had summoned him had been the fact that the summoner had been a very well armed Starscream. 

 

Between Starscream’s null rays and Fang’s natural dignity, he hadn’t tried to run away, and he refused to grovel, but  _ Pit  _ if he didn’t want to. 

 

“There were  _ two hundred  _ of them!” Megatron raged at him, and Fang secretely wondered if his short life was about to end, even as he waited with stony silence for Megatron to conclude his ranting. “And they couldn’t even kill  one  Autobot!” 

 

Fang knew he was undefended before the Lord of the Decepticons. Starscream, to Megatron’s right, was not even trying to protect him. Fang understood that: Megatron, in this mood, was incredibly dangerous. Starscream had his own aft to look out for. He and Starscream were allies of mutual convenience, and right now, that alliance had just gotten rather inconvenient for his boss.

 

There were many things Fang could have said in the defense of his minicons, starting with,  _ The ones who died were miners, not warriors. _

 

And ... that was probably not the best thing to say to Megatron, once a miner himself, turned famed gladiator and then politician, and when he’d failed as a polician, rabble rouser and then supreme commander of the rabble that came to call themselves Decepticons. Miners, in Megatron’s mind, were probably a lot better equipped to defend themselves than other noncombatants. Because  he’d  been one. Fang held his tongue. Anything he said would make Megatron angrier at this point. Even an attempt to apologize might provoke a lethal reaction.  


 

Savagely, Fang thought,  _ They were minicons. What were they supposed to do, use their picks and shovels and rock drills to dismantle Optimus Prime himself? When Megatron himself hasn’t managed that, and not for a lack of skilled attempts on Prime’s life over the years? Pit. He doesn’t ask much, does he? _

 

** Hmm ** ,  said Vermin, which wasn’t at all helpful and  was  distracting.

 

“Well, Captain Fangface? What do you have to say for yourself?” Megatron demanded, volcanic anger cooling down to a dangerous simmer. Fang wasn't fooled. It wouldn't take much to make Megatron erupt again. 

 

Carefully, with dignity, Fangface said, “Sir. I’ve already put in a requisition with Shockwave for replacement miners. In the interim, my fighting teams were not affected as they were in transit back to the Nemesis when the attack occurred. Most have mining experience, as I generally select the most able miners for uptraining as fighters. I have two hundred twenty-four surviving minicons, total ...” Megatron’s optics started to glaze over, and Fang cut his explanation short, “and we should be able to keep production up.”

 

“How will this affect our offensive strategies?” Megatron demanded.  


 

Soundwave stood to Megatron’s left on the command deck of the Nemesis, and somewhat to Fang’s surprise, the master spy and communications officer spoke up. “Offensive strategies, remain the same. No active engagement of Autobot forces. Fang’s teams are primarily used for offensive purposes: assassinations, sabotage, infiltration. Operations will remain unaffected if the majority of his forces reassigned to open new mine. Shockwave will utilize seekers with warp drives to deliver replacement minicon miners within the week, Fang will reclaim his soldiers, and we will return to normal operations very shortly.”

 

Megatron gritted his pointy teeth, visibly, for a long moment. Fang tensed to take a beating. He knew better than to fight back. He  hated  interacting with Megatron.

 

** Hmm ** ,  said the Prime. **The deaths do not bother him. He will not mourn them. He is merely upset because he lost something that was his. The miners were property to him, nothing more.**  


 

_ :Duh, Vermin. Tell me something I don't know. And I really don't need the distraction right now. :  _ said Fang. 

 

And why was Soundwave defending him? Point of fact, one of the reasons Starscream had drafted him in the first place was that Fang’s well-trained minicons were a handy counter to Soundwave’s small band of sneaky little symbionts. That role made him Soundwave’s defacto enemy. Fang had no illusions about Soundwave. Soundwave could just as easily have worded his response to Megatron in such a way that it made Fang look guilty. He'd seen Soundwave destroy rivals in such a manner before.   


 

“Sir,” Soundwave said, “Some blame, mine. Attack not detected until it was too late.”

 

“Yes. About that. You will do better next time, correct?” Megatron reached up and grabbed one of Soundwave’s tentacles in a crushing grip.

 

The host did not react to what had to be considerable pain. He said, simply, “Criticism, understood and accepted.”

 

Megatron snarled, and let go of him. To Fang, he said, “If you lose any more miners,  you  will be personally stationed to defend the next mine. I know just how much you are afraid of actual honest combat, Fang. Bear that in mind.”

 

_ Yeah. Any one of Optimus’s team could blast me into pieces if they got me in their sights. Ya think I might have an honest reason to be afraid of so-called honest combat? I’ve got slag-all nothing for force shields, when it comes right down to it. _

 

Fang smiled at Megatron. Giving no clue of his real thoughts, he said calmly, “Thank you, sir, for your mercy. I will do much better next time.”

 

“We lost  _ two hundred  _ miners.” Megatron glowered at him. “I don’t care if Starscream thinks you walk on water. I’ll  _ personally  _ offline you if this happens again.”

 

“Yes sir.” Fang’s plating was clamped as tight to his frame as possible. He substituted “submission” for “calm.” One never knew which attitude would work best with Megatron. Sometimes, Megatron got mad if if a mech showed him too much deference;  sometimes, he saw calm confidence as a sign a mech wasn’t taking him seriously enough. The only constant was that if you tried to tell him that he was wrong, he  would  slag you.  


 

Megatron clapped a hand to his face. “Get out of my sight.”

 

“Yes sir.” Fang dropped into alt mode and retreated in a hurry, tail literally between his legs. He didn't need to be told twice. Soundwave, a bulky and tentacled mass, left as well. Fang immediately missed Deathwheels when he realized that the spymaster was following him. 

 

He’d left his favorite minion in his quarters, because it would be perfectly in character for Megatron to demonstrate his displeasure by shooting an underling or two. Fang failed to see how  he  could be blamed for the loss (death!) of two hundred minicons to Autobot aggression when Megatron routinely executed people for no reason other than a foul mood. Now, however, facing Soundwave’s massive and powerful bulk, he  really  wished for Deathwheels’ backup. 

 

Except that if Soundwave knew who Deathwheels was, Soundwave might make another attempt at hacking and enslaving him.

 

Pit.

 

Soundwave was a telepath.

 

He’d been trying to avoid Soundwave ever since he’d come back from Egypt, both for Deathwheels' sake, and because he really wanted to hide the presence of the Matrix from any and all other Decepticons. Pit, pit, pit. The mech was a  telepath.

 

** Relax, kid. Soundwave can’t read your thoughts. You have natural shields. **

 

He’d never known that. He blinked in surprise, even has he reverted back to root. Soundwave liked predacons; Fang was one of the few predacons with a bipedal root mode, and he had long ago learned to confront Soundwave on two legs. Soundwave was enough of a creeper as it was without trying to talk to him while obviously embodying Soundwave’s all-time-favorite frame type.

 

** And no small amount of empathy, of the psychic kind. Fang, you have skills and talents far beyond your wildest dreams. **

 

_ :Don’t distract me! See: Giant Tentacled Telepath, in the here and now.:  _ Fangface resolved to get to the bottom of “unknown skills and talents” in the very near future, because that sounded potentially useful. He turned his full attention to Soundwave, however, and said, “Thank you, sir. I believed you saved me a beating.”

 

“Megatron was contemplating killing you.” Soundwave’s EM field held the equivalent of a frown, though nothing could be read on the mech’s visored features. “Debt, paid.”

 

“Oh. For Ravage. Then we’re equal.” Well, that explained Soundwave's motivation. He hadn't realized the telepath had that kind of honor, or cared for his mecha that much. He'd assumed that debt was paid when Soundwave had arranged for his rescue from Egypt.   


 

Soundwave’s tentacles rippled across the ground, and then abruptly sucked into the telepath’s chassis. “Observation: Soundwave, would be a better master than Starscream. Starscream, uses you. Does not  value  you, except as one values a tool.”

 

Fang took a sharp step back, unable to keep real horror from reaching his field. He didn’t even want to know what his expression looked like.

 

Soundwave started to reach a hand out, and said softly, “Fangface ... would be cherished.”

 

“Oh,  pit  no.”

 

“But Fang’s skills, complimentary with mine.”

 

“Compliment all you want, buddy. I’d chew my own spark out before I became  your  slave.”

 

“It is not slavery.”

 

“Tell that to Scurry.”

 

“Scurry ... Soundwave regrets. He was released, before any permanent bond established. Determined needs ... incompatible with Soundwave's desires. Is he well?”

 

“He’s  _ dead _ ,” Fang ground out, a lie, but only a lie because Fangface had gotten there in time to save him.

 

Soundwave took a step back of his own. Then he bowed his head. Fangface felt real sorrow from him. “Soundwave believed Fang to have the skills needed to repair him. Soundwave believed it best if Fang did the repairs. Scurry, was terrified of Soundwave. I am ... I am sorry to have overestimated your abilities. It is sometimes difficult to judge a mech with shields such as yours.”

 

Soundwave spun and fled, and it was definitely  _ flight . _

 

Vermin said,  ** Hmm . **

 

_ :Anyone ever tell you that hacking another without their permission is  rape , Vermin? Get out of my head.:  _ Fang was in no mood to be nice to the Prime. He was in a foul mood all around.  _ :You don’t have my permission to be here, and you’re not being helpful. You’re a slagging distraction, at best, and I’m sick of being distracted.: _

 

Much to his surprise, Vermillion recoiled emotionally. Fang felt a distinct impression of  shock  from the ghost. Vermillion said,  ** You are correct, and I apologize. **

 

And then he was gone, completely and totally. The hallway, which had been cool, suddenly felt stuffy and oppressive.

 

_ :Oh, come back.:  _ He felt guilty. Vermin had meant well, and he’d spoken out of anger and frustration with his whole situation. He really didn't like having another mech in his head, but he also was coldly logical enough, at spark, to know that Vermin could be very useful. Plus, he rather liked the old Prime. He meant well, and he cared about Fang, which were two things that were very rare in Fang's world. Fang could feel Vermillion's emotions, and there wasn't a trace of malice or deceit in him.  _ :Vermin ... Vermillion, I’m sorry.: _

 

Nobody answered.

 

Fang poked at the Matrix. It really was like a second memory core had been attached to his processor. He could see the memories of a score of Primes who had carried it before him, almost as if they were his own. 

 

Much to his surprise, he discovered very quickly that one didn’t have to be a Prime to carry a Matrix ... the human youngling wasn’t a Prime, even though he had wielded one. Likewise, one could be a Prime without possessing a Matrix. It was all very strange, and metaphysical, and he didn’t begin to understand it. By the Matrix’s own definition  he  was a Prime, a fact he still wasn't thinking too much about. It felt like a mistake.   


 

“Fang?” Starscream’s voice jerked him back to reality. He looked up, surprised, to find that the seeker had approached him. “Are you well?”

 

“I’m fine. You won’t believe this -- Soundwave just  _ propositioned  _ me.”

 

“Really?” Starscream cackled. 

 

“I told him to go take a quick hike out a fast airlock, of course.” Fang fluffed and settled his armor, an expression of complete disgust that was universal across Cybertronian frame types. “Pit, what a day I’ve had. So many of my troops, dead. Pit take Optimus Prime. They weren’t even combatants.”

 

Starscream admitted, “I was afraid Megatron was going to slag you. And there would be nothing I could do. You’re doing a good job, runt. It’d ruin a lot of my plans if I lose you.”

 

Fangface snorted. He was under no illusions that Starscream saw him as anything but a useful means to an end. Starscream didn’t even bother to hide that he was the sort of sneaky sociopath who simply viewed others as tools. Well, at least, Fangface rationalized, you knew exactly what to expect from Screamer. Fang admitted, “Megatron scares me. At least he used to be sane, but now ... now, he’s just a lunatic.”

 

“Yesssss,” Starscream said, “and he gets more crazier, by the day.”

 

Fang glanced up at the seeker. He couldn’t help but think that if Starscream and Soundwave teamed up, they could take out Megatron. He’d tolerate Soundwave’s creeper factor if it meant an end to the greater threat that was Megatron. Soundwave had the saving grace of, apparently, actually caring for his own people, even if how he  got  those people made Fang’s plating crawl.

 

The Matrix approved of that idea. He suspected Vermin would too, but Vermin was gone. 

 

The absence of the ancient Prime was rather like a missing tooth ... a missing  damaged  tooth. The tooth might have been annoying when he still had it, but now he found he kept poking the hole where it had been. Fang shook his head, as if to banish the thoughts filling his head, and said, “May I be dismissed, boss?”

 

“Go. Let me know if you need anything.” Starscream started to reach out, as if to put a hand on Fang’s shoulder, then stopped himself. Fang had gone very, very, tense in reaction.

 

 

* * *

 

Fang stopped in his quarters on the way to the lair. As soon as his door slid open, he heard quiet sobbing.

 

Amp. And Ohm, as it turned out. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone use Ohm as a the living equivalent of a stuffed animal when they upset, though it bothered him for reasons he didn’t want to think too much about. (Though if he squinted hard and was brutally honest with himself, it was because he would personally be highly embarrassed to snuggle another mech for his own comfort.) 

 

In any event, Amplitude was curled up in a ball in one of Fang’s chairs, with Ohm in his arms. When he saw Fang, he straightened up, and his vocalizer cut off so sharply that Fang knew that the young soldier had literally cut the power to it. After several clicks and what was very obviously a system reset, Amp stammered out, without crying, “Boss, sorry, sorry, I ... I was afraid they were going to kill you! Death said he was scared for you, and, and, I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

 

“I’m fine.” Fangface said, a bit startled. Amp was crying out of fear for him?

 

“They killed  Chittter! ” Amplitude wailed. Ah. That made more sense. The two were best friends and lovers. 

 

Ohm patted Amp’s chest, right over his spark, with a tiny hand. Amp clutched the glitchmouse’s tubby little body tight, and stared at Fang with huge eyes. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean ... I’ll go ... I was just ... Ohm and me, we were cleaning your quarters ... Ohm volunteered to help me, if I shared with him some of the stuff Death’s gonna teach us ...”

 

Ohm did not, to Fang’s knowledge, talk. That wasn’t for lack of intelligence, but rather due to the limitations of his primitive processor. He just didn’t have the circuits to process language output. Glitch mice were never meant to do anything but the most basic of jobs, and frame designers never bothered to give them more processing power. However, the kid had learned some basic hand signs -- about fifty, total --- and he was very good at communicating his wishes and needs despite his hardware limitations. Therefore, Fang took that statement from Amp at face value. 

 

Anyway, last time he’d underestimated a glitchmouse, the slagger had turned around and beaten him at quattra. Fang was admittedly lousy at quattra, but losing to a glitch mouse had been humiliating. Death had teased him for months.Glitchmice were not stupid, precisely, and somewhere far more intelligent than others. Ohm was most likely brilliant, and had Fang was certain he had the spark traits to support a processor with much more power. Neural upgrades for Ohm were on his shortest to-do list, as soon as he managed to scavenge the parts needed.   


 

 

Fangface said, mildly, “ Both  of you can take lessons from Death together. I will tell him I authorized it. And if Ohm continues to do well, I’ll see about upgrading his processor so he can actually utilize what he’s learning.”

 

“Oh.” Amp said, even as Ohm perked up and gave Fang a very, very, interested look. 

 

The little slagger was just too adorable -- he had a round body, short legs, huge ears, enormous golden eyes, and dental equipment that rivaled Fang’s own teeth, scaled down proportionately. That appearance was incredibly deceptive, however. He could also in Fang’s hand, and still packed enough capacitance in his electrical system to knock a mech the size of a small gestalt flat. That chubby, round, fist-sized-to-Fang body was  all  capacitors under the armor. Glitchmice didn’t even utilize energon, they recharged their capacitors and batteries by induction from surrounding electrical fields -- they literally leeched off the EM fields of bigger mecha and machinery. Ohm had more gross electrical storage ability than Fang did, and Fang was a couple hundred times his weight. 

 

Fang knelt, ignoring his hip (he’d gotten very good at ignoring the pain as irrelevant) and said, “Amplitude, people die in this war. It’s something we all have to deal with. Tears won’t make it better.”

 

Ohm frowned at him. Amplitude hiccuped a staticky sounding note, then said, “But I miss him.”

 

“I’ve lost  far  more people than you, kid.” Fang said, a bit more firmly. “You don’t see me crying, do you? I miss them too, but what  point  is there to tears? If you’re going to be one of my lieutenants, Amp, you need to learn that you aren’t the only mech who’s lost people, and there is no point in crying. What’s done is done.”

 

Amp let out a long, slow, ragged ex-vent that sounded like it should have come from a much bigger mech. “I wish you’d never promoted me, Fang.”

 

“... What?” Fang was startled by this. Who wouldn’t want to get out of the mines?

 

“Chitter was there.” Amp tucked his knees up, and wrapped his arms around both Ohm and his legs. Ohm wriggled a bit and let himself be hugged. 

 

Fang blinked. “But you’d be dead now. Everyone at that mine died.”

 

“What does it matter?” Amplitude lifted one shoulder in half a dispirited shrug. “We’re all going to die, sooner or later. Particularly us littles. I wish I could have spent the end of my life with Chitter. He was ... he was my  world . I accepted the promotion because I figured I could talk you into promoting him or something, eventually, because he was  so  smart, so that’s why I accepted your offer to become a soldier, but now he’s gone.”

 

Fang sat down on his haunches. He was so astonished by Amplitude’s admission that he didn’t even bother trying to hide his damaged leg. He sat cockeyed, weight entirely off the bad hip. For a second, he chewed on one claw, scratched at a tooth, then nibbled at a knuckle. “You loved him so much you’d rather be dead than alive now?” 

 

Amp looked up and said fiercely, “I loved him so much I would trade my life now for more  time  with him.”

 

Fang actually got it. Fang had loved another mech like that exactly twice in his life. Neither had been a lover; both had been  family . Additionally, the Matrix held memories, which were stirred by Amplitude’s confession: the memories of past Primes, who had also  loved like that, and Fang nearly winced as the captured emotions of those ancient Primes battered at him.

 

“I see.” Fang finally said. “Amp, I can’t ... I can’t bring him back. But what I  can  do is promise to to see that you get a chance to  live . This life ... this senseless killing ... it’s stupid and wasteful and I’m tired of it. I want to give you a chance to have the life you deserve. I swear, I’ll make it happen. I promise.”

 

Bitterly, Amplitude said, “Don’t make empty promises. Sir. You can’t stop this war, and that’s what it would take. What are you going to do, stage a coup?  You ?”

 

Fang caught Amplitude’s tiny hands in his own clawed fingers. The Matrix seemed to be listening, recording, very closely as he said firmly, “Amp, I promise I will do  whatever it takes .”

 

The mechling stared at him for a long, long, moment. 

 

Ohm  meeped . 

 

Fang reached up from Amp’s hands to caress the glitchmouse’s head. This time, Ohm didn’t flinch away. Fang gently picked him up out of Amp’s arms -- it had been a long time since he’d held a child, and yet the way that Ohm snuggled into his arms was still painfully familiar. Death might claim Ohm was a youngling, not a sparkling, but there was still a lot of ‘child’ left in the glitchmouse. He very firmly told himself the youngling was snuggling him, not the other way around, and he said with dignity, “I had a sparkling once, you know. I loved him ... would have done anything for him.”

 

“What happened to him?” 

 

Fang shrugged. “Starscream.” It was sufficient explanation if you knew Starscream. The details didn’t matter, and he didn’t feel like further explanation, though the story of what had happened to the mech he’d considered his own child wasn’t exactly complex. 

 

Amp stared at him. “We  work  for Starscream.”

 

Fang’s teeth were very, very, sharp. He bared them all. It wasn’t a smile. “So. You begin to see. My primary goal is survival, no matter what it takes?”

 

Amp reached a hand out and rested it on Fang’s forearm. Fang did not flinch away this time. Instead, he covered Amp’s fingers with his own, met the smaller mech’s gaze with a level stare, and was gratified when Amp bared his own blunt teeth in a savage, feral, grin. Then Amp said, “What’s the point of survival, though, if you have nothing to live for?”

 

“I have  you  lot to live for.” Fang said, then realized he’d admitted more than he wanted to. Amp looked startled. Fang sighed. “I was  born  into this war, Amp. The ideals of Megatron mean little to me, and I’ve known the hypocrisy of both sides my entire life. I don’t fight for the Cause. I fight because I have no choice. Keeping as many of you minicons alive as possible, and with something of a standard of living -- that’s my purpose, insomuch as I have any purpose.”

 

Amp bit his lip. “I never realized that.”

 

“I don’t normally talk about it.” Fang shrugged. “But ... things are changing. Maybe  we  can change them.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I’ve got a plan ...” It was a very ambitious plan, and he’d had it for a long time. Actually, it wasn’t so much as a plan, but a very detailed daydream. That qualified, right? “Maybe it’s time I started acting on it. Megatron just peeled my plating off for something that  wasn’t my fault , and the next time, he might kill me. If I die, things will get very bad, very quickly, for the rest of you lot. I think it’s time I put that plan into action.”

 

“Defecting to the Autobots?” Amp said, brightly, and sounding like he liked that idea a great deal.

 

Fang pinned his ears back. “No. The Autobots aren’t any better than the ‘cons. I learned that the hard way. My plan?  End this war  by check, and mate, of both factions.”

 

“How the Pit do you plan to do that?”

 

Fang’s grin was very toothy. “Are you both with me?” 

 

Ohm nodded eagerly. Amp was a bit slower, but his response was measured and even.

 

“Good. I have some missions where I can use both of you. First, we will be going to retrieve an old friend of mine. He’s in stasis lock on Earth’s moon ...”


	7. Chapter 7

Mikaela fell into a rhythm of arriving at the campus long before Sam’s classes let out, at least a few days a week. She felt sorry for ‘Bee, who had to sit alone in a hot parking lot, and Bee was always genuinely glad to see her. Likely, she thought, he was incredibly bored. Sam never seemed to appreciate just how lonely it must be for Bumblebee to sit alone all day, doing nothing. Cybertronians were as social as humans, if not moreso, but no matter how often she reminded Sam of that, he just didn't seem to get it. That bothered her, and she was making a point of visiting Bee as often as possible.   


 

Ten days after the assault on the insecticon mining complex, she slid into Bee’s driver’s seat, and checked her watch. It was three PM -- Sam wouldn’t be out of class until six. They had three hours, therefore, to hang out. “What’s up?”

 

“Mikaela, we have an issue you might be able to help us with.” Bee said, “Would you be interested in meeting a new mech?”

 

“New mech? Sure.” Mikaela grinned. “What can I help with?”

 

“Ratchet might need another set of hands if he needs repairs -- if it’s who we think it is, he’s been on his own for awhile. Other than that ... well, Optimus has some ideas.”

 

Bumblebee wouldn't elaborate further. However, he took her to the base, which occupied a sprawling patch of land outside the city. It was mostly abandoned, a victim of budget cuts and urban sprawl in the 90's, and the Autobots had it to themselves except for few guards and the NEST team. Given the scale of Autobot training exercises, this was probably a good thing. She'd seen hand-to-hand combat drills between the 'bots that had ranged over miles of terrain. Ironhide actually had the power to chuck Optimus airborne, and did, on a regular basis.

 

The gate guards stepped out of their booth as Bumblebee rolled up. Bumblebee greeted the soldiers with a warm, "Afternoon, men!"

 

"Hey, Bee!" The men chorused, as Bumblebee rolled the window down so they could see Mikaela was the only passenger. The older of the two spotted her and said, "Miss Bane, correct? I'll need to see some ID, but you've already got clearance to enter. Just stay with Bee or one of the other 'bots or a human officer."

 

She handed him her driver's license. Bee said cheerfully, while the man copied down the information on her license, "Nice day, isn't it?"

 

"Gorgeous," he replied. Both soldiers seemed at ease with Bumblebee. One asked, "Hey, Bee, are you blowing things up tonight?"

 

"Probably not. We've got a new 'bot arriving in a few minutes!" Bumblebee sounded completely bouncy now. "Watch the sky for the light show! I'll be busy getting him settled in. But we should have time tomorrow."

 

"See you tomorrow, then," the man waved Bee through the gates after handing Mikaela her license back.

 

"See you tomorrow?" she asked.

 

"Firepower demonstrations," Bee said, with a laugh in his voice. "I've never met a soldier yet, of either of our species, who doesn't love watching big guns go boom. And it helps Arcee and Inferno calibrate our weapons and the humans we fight with need to know what our guns can, and cannot, do."

 

"New bot?" She added, curiously and belatedly.

 

"Yeah, we think it might be a young mech called Hot Spot, since we were expecting him about now. Radar picked him up last night. He pinged us with some old partial Autobot recognition codes early on, though he’s gone to radio silence now. We’re not sure if he’s just being cautious, or if there’s an issue. The codes might have been an automated transmission." Bee said. Instead of turning towards the hangers and low office buildings in the distance he hung a right, and followed the road down to a fairly good sized lake. Optimus was already there, as was one third of Arcee, Ratchet, Inferno, and Ironhide , plus Doc and Jolt. She recognized the group as being a good portion of Optimus Prime's inner circle, as well as the med bay staff. Why had Bee invited her? He'd said she could help them out ... how? 

 

Bee added, "I’m sure you’ll like him. Hot Spot's tons of fun.”

 

She stepped out of the Camero when Bee parked, and he transformed behind her as she walked across the grass towards the other 'bots.

 

"Hello, Mikaela," Optimus greeted her gravely. "Welcome."

 

"Thanks, big guy.”

 

Optimus informed her. "We have been expecting this mech’s arrival. He is incoming now. We do not want Megatron to know he is here - absolutely no chance of that, do you understand? That is where you come in. Will you help us?"

 

"Me?"

 

"I believe we can accomplish two things," Optimus said, gravely. "We can keep you safer, and, additionally, this will help our mission. The most likely candidate for the newly arriving mech, based on radar scans, is Hot Spot, as he and his team should be arriving around now. It would be a great asset to our cause if you could help us conceal him, in the guise of a vehicle under repair.”

 

"I ... uh, yeah, sure." Given what the world owed the 'bots, who was she to say no? Besides, the fact that the Autobots would trust her with the safety of one of their own, and with war secrets, was incredibly flattering. She wouldn’t let them down.

 

"Thank you, Mikaela," Optimus said, voice very grave.

 

"There he is!" Bumblebee interrupted, pointing. There was a fireball in the sky, growing fast in size. It roared over their heads - she ducked, even though the Autobots seemed to be completely calm. The fireball hit the lake a mile beyond them with a ferocious, thundering explosion of steam and water.

 

"That's not Hot Spot!" Bee shouted, bringing his gun up to bear.

 

"Waaaaay too much mass!" Jolt agreed. "WAY too much!"

 

"Mikaela, take cover!" Optimus dropped to one knee. He had his gun aimed in the general direction of the spot in the lake where the fireball had hit. "Ironhide, flank right! Bee, Arcee, left! Inferno, Ratchet, Jolt, we'll cover you. Doc,  wait here  with Mikaela."

 

She dove behind a pile of rocks, which put her close to Arcee. Doc crouched behind her, clearly shielding her with his bulk. He was not a combatant, and was not well armored, but he could at least deflect any flying debris. The Autobot insignia that hung on a chain around his neck brushed her arm, cool and hard. When she glanced over at it, she realized it was cut from a finger-thick, slightly curved, piece of metal.  


 

Arcee said, without looking in Mikaela's direction, "Radar reflection indicated a mech close in size to Hot Spot, but human radar's not all that accurate for measuring mass. Whatever just hit, it's got more raw mass than Optimus."

 

"He's also not surfacing," Mikaela pointed out. She could see something in the water - a knee, she thought - sticking up. Steam rose, and drifted in their direction, carrying with it the smell of superheated metal and burnt insulation.

 

"I know, and he’s not got any life signs that I can read." Arcee had her gun trained on that form anyway, even as Ratchet and Inferno waded into water that was up to their necks. The two of them attached chains to the mech, and then drug him across the shallow lake. They splashed back out near Optimus's position.

 

"Gonna need some help here," Inferno said, to Optimus. "This guy’s freaking massive and he's slagged to the Well and back."

 

The three of them, together, managed to drag the 'bot out of the water. When he was most of the way onto shore, Arcee suddenly lowered her gun. The rest did the same; clearly, they recognized the strange Autobot. In that instant she couldn't begin to read their body language, or know what they were thinking. Then Ironhide rumbled, "By the First Spark ... I thought he was dead."

 

"He was dead," Arcee whispered. Then, sounding confused, she asked, "Is he still alive?"

 

He was enormous, and powerful looking - truly a giant, on the same scale as Optimus and Megatron. And now the leader of the Autobots knelt beside the stranger. "My friend," he said, voice pitched low and earnest, "are you still with us?"

 

"Who is he?" Mikaela asked, stepping up next to Bee. The mech did not answer Optimus's query.  


 

Bumblebee looked at her, and shook his head, and then hurried over to crouch next to Optimus. She wasn't sure if Bee's vocalizer was glitching, or if he just couldn't bring himself to answer for emotional reasons. Ratchet, on the other side of the body, was getting tools out. Arcee, hand over what passed for her mouth, simply stood and stared in what appeared to be true shock. Inferno rested a hand on her shoulder, and bent over, and said something to her, too softly for Mikaela to even tell if he was speaking English or Cybertronian.  


 

The 'bot, at first, looked deceased to her eyes. His eyes were fixed and staring ahead, and the irises did not react as she crept closer. There was not one trace of motion in that long, broad, powerful form. Autobots didn't breath, exactly, though they vented air for cooling and combustion purposes. However, even when not ‘breathing’ there was always a hum of energy to them, and like organic life forms they were never, ever perfectly still. While in alt mode, and powered down for recharge, you could put a hand on a mech and feel the  life  in them. This 'bot wasn't moving at all, and his was a motionlessness like death. Mikaela was reminded, to her horror, of Optimus's dead body.  


 

When she got closer she saw he'd taken heavy damage. There were panels and parts missing all over his body, with wires pulled out. He had gaping holes on his arms, exposing the inner workings, where she thought guns should have been mounted. A chunk of his chest was completely gone, cut away, and she could see into his body: cold, dark, motionless cables and pistons and hydraulic lines, small motors, and electronic bits, and the gleaming matte silver of a corner of his spark chamber. His fingers on one hand were all missing; the other arm was totally ripped off. A piece of metal was blown from one side of his head, and a tangled medusa-like mess of cables trailed across the ground beside him. Some of those wires were fifteen, twenty feet long. One foot and the other leg were missing also, she realized, after a moment's shock.

 

"They tortured him," Arcee whispered.

 

"You knew they would, 'Cee." this was Ratchet.

 

"Is he ...?" Optimus hesitated. "Ratchet, is there anything we can do? Is he gone?"

 

"I don't know," Ratchet had some sort of a scanner aimed into that deep, dark cavity in his chest.   


 

Then, suddenly, the eyes moved. Just the eyes, nothing else. They spiraled down to pinpoint pupils, then widened back up. Had anyone else seen ...?

 

Arcee gave a small, muffled cry. She'd noticed the motion.

 

"Optimus, he's still in there, in the deepest stasis lock I've ever seen in a living 'bot," Ratchet said, but he sounded very grim. "Ironhide, will you get a tent and my advanced medical kit from the hangar? I don't know if I can pull this off or not. I'll do what I can, but it's going to be a difficult job."

 

"He's tough." Optimus said, sounding far more certain than Ratchet did. "It's been what, four thousand years?"

 

Ironhide rumbled, "If we fix him, it'll be a helluva help, that's for sure."

 

Mikaela kept out of the way as they worked on the newcomer. The 'bots were tense and understandably upset. She learned from the ongoing conversation that this 'bot was a very old friend, and someone they had thought long dead. Arcee, in particular, was rattled and clearly didn't know what to do until Ratchet thrust something that resembled a high-tech soldering iron into her hand. Then she was all business. He put her to work repairing the damage to the robot's sensory synapses. His eyes were moving, but they were, according to Ratchet, blind. He was also deaf, and they'd cut the connection between his sensory processor and his body, which meant he couldn't feel anything, either.

 

"Don't fix that," Ratchet said, "until we get the rest of this mess repaired."

 

"I'm not sure if the sensory deprivation would be better or worse than the pain," Arcee whispered.

 

"He's not conscious, 'Cee. He's running on fumes, and has shut everything down but a few critical systems - spark containment stuff only. He's been that way for thousands of years."  


 

"Optimus - if he's gone bonkers, do you think the all of us can take him down?" This was Ironhide. "That sort of torture can drive a mech crazy. I'm not looking forward to a rumble with him, tell you that now."

 

Optimus seemed very sobered by the thought. "Hopefully his anger will be directed at Megatron, and not at us, Ironhide."

 

"He won't be rumbling any time soon," Ratchet shook his head as he worked. "Optimus, I've never seen a 'bot who is this far gone still have any shred of spark left. Sane? We'll be lucky if he's coherent. There's a lot of damage here, and I don't know if I can fix all of it. Don't think anyone could. Looks like they were repeatedly sending power surges through his circuits ... he's ..." Ratchet trailed off, seeming to be at a loss for words. He pulled a handful of charred and crumbling electronics out of the enormous mech's chest cavity and tossed them to the side. Inferno handed him what looked to be a replacement part. "... Optimus, there is no way he could have detected your beacon, much less set a course to land here."

 

"You think Megatron sent him to us as - what, a message? A trap?" Ironhide growled. "Probably a trap. He's probably bugfuck crazy. Megatron tortured him until he broke, and then sent him to us as a nasty surprise. Or they infected him with that slagging  _ virus _ ."

 

Optimus said, with firm confidence, "Ironhide, he would never break, and they would not have tortured him to this degree if they were able to hack him instead. His sanity will not be in question."

 

Sotto voice, Arcee said, "But Optimus's might be..."

 

The rest snickered at this comment. Clearly, it was an old in-joke. Mikaela wondered at the context.

 

"Optimus is right," Arcee said, as she glanced up from welding a shiny new stainless steel patch to what passed for the Autobot's damaged cheek. "The reason the damage is this bad is that he wouldn't talk and they couldn't hack him. If he had, the rest of us would never have escaped - he knew where the base was, and Megatron's soldiers outnumbered us twenty to one, remember? I think Megatron tortured him until he appeared dead. Then he just threw him away. Which doesn't explain how he got here now, but I'm not afraid of him being a sleeper agent."

 

Bumbeblee, who had simply been watching, suddenly sat down next to Mikaela, which put his shoulders at about her head height. She stood closer to him, and asked quietly, "Who is he?"

 

Bee glanced over. Behind the blue glow of his eyes seemed to lurk real grief. "An old friend. We thought he was dead."

 

"Who ...?" she reached out and rested a hand on Bee’s forearm. The metal felt warm, and she could feel a hum and small vibrations and movements under her hand. How had she ever thought the Camero was just a car?

 

Bee glanced down at her hand, then whooshed a sigh through his vents that communicated an emotion of frustration and resignation perfectly. He rested his own hand across her shoulders in response. It always amazed her that creatures as big and, well, robotic, as the Autobots could be so very gentle. "Sorry, Mikaela. I thought this would be a party. Not ... this." he nodded at the fallen 'bot, "He was one of us. Optimus sent Arcee and a mech named Fangface on a recon mission. Our friend here was leading them, with a base in low orbit, and providing heavy backup if they needed it. It was supposed to be an in and out scouting trip. We knew Megatron had some bases on that world, and they were just supposed to survey things without being detected, then leave. It was a routine trip. They'd done that sort of mission a thousand times, and expected no trouble."

 

"It didn't go as planned?"

 

"Fangface b-betrayed them." Bee's voice caught again. "I was the one who brought Fangface to the team, Mikaela. I thought he was my friend. I ... s-saved his life, and talked the others into accepting him. He swore allegiance to Optimus. He fought at our sides for years. I failed Optimus the day he betrayed us."

 

"He was a Decepticon?" The name was a giveaway. She pictured a toothy, jagged face among the noble Autobots she had come to know as friends. It felt wrong. On the other hand, she could easily picture them tagging a friendly Decepticon with that name, teasing and joking with him about his unlikely appearance.

 

"He _betrayed_ us. Our friend there ..." Bee nodded at the fallen 'bot. "... He's obviously powerful mech. Megatron had a price on his head for years, because he'd taken out so many of Megatron's soldiers. Fang turned traitor, and gave up their position. Our friend held Megatron's forces off by himself so the what remained of Arcee could escape in a shuttle -- that was the fight in which she lost one of her frames. By the time they got reinforcements it was too late. When we came back for him ... and Mikaela, I led that mission ... we found scattered parts ... signs of a huge firefight. We thought he'd died in the fight when we found no trace of a thermal signature. We found ... we found part of his chest plate, and a burned up piece of leg, and a hand, and I figured he'd died."

 

Bee let out a low, shuddering sound. It might have been a cry in an alien language, she didn't know. She reached up and touched his arm again, shocked by the raw emotion in his voice. He continued, "We sent what parts we could find into that world’s sun, and mourned him. It had been a hell of a fight, and the parts were scattered over a thousand square miles of planet and charred almost beyond the point of recognition by the heat of atmospheric entry. We thought we were lucky to find anything of him at all ... you know that Autobot sigil that Doc wears around his neck? That was from his armor. He and Doc were best friends."

 

Arcee looked up from her work, and said in a tone of annoyance, "Sorry to interrupt, Bee, but Sam’s refusing to let me take him home from college. He's threatening to take a cab. Will you go get him?"

 

"Why won't he ...?" Bumblebee said, in puzzlement. This also baffled Mikaela - once she'd sorted out that the other two parts of Arcee were still with Sam, she still couldn't figure out why he was reluctant to ride back to the base with her. While Bee was Sam's best friend among the 'bots, she'd seen him ride with almost everyone - even with Ironhide, whose tolerance of humans was grudging at best.

 

"Arcee, can you blame him?" Optimus rumbled at her. She looked away sharply, then returned to welding bits of the fallen autobot back together. Then he added, "Bee, go. We don't need you here right now. This is probably going to take all night."

 

"Sure, boss." Bumblebee transformed from his sitting position, with far less than his usual enthusiasm.

 

"And Mikaela - Wheelie is not to know about this Autobot. Do you understand?" Optimus straightened up, and looked straight at her. "That is very important."

 

"Thank you, Optimus," Arcee murmured. Ratchet said something very similar. She added, "We thought you were losing your mind over the runt."

 

Optimus corrected them, sounding more than a little irritated, "Wheelie is not Fangface. However, make no mistake in assuming that I trust him. Aside from his birth, he is very young and quite inexperienced. Here before us is evidence of the length that Decepticons will go to extract information. Wheelie broke in moments, after the loss of one eye and a threat to do more by a young human armed only with a blowtorch. If he is captured by Megatron, my assumption is that he will behave similarly. Therefore, he is not to know any sensitive information. And this ... this is truly sensitive. If we can repair him ..."

 

Optimus gazed down at the 'bot for a long moment. "If we can repair him, I do not think I exaggerate when I say we may be able to turn the tide of this war. We need powerful warriors. Had he been with us in Egypt, it would have been a very uneven battle weighted heavily in our favor. Had he been at my side, it is unlikely Megatron would have killed me." Optimus paused for a long, long moment, before adding, "But more important than that, he is a friend. One long mourned, long lost, has come back to us ..."

 

Ratchet, who was nearly up to his armpit in alien robot abdominal wiring and had been grumbling in his native language for several minutes, said, "I'm trying, Big Boss. I'm trying. But this is like trying to boot up a nuclear power plant using jumper cables. "

 

"Let's go, Mikaela," Bumblebee said, from beside her. "If I stay here, I'm going to start crying again."

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

“Fang!” Starscream caught up with him in the hall, moving improbably fast and gracefully despite a frame that should have been awkward, at best, on the ground.   
  
Fang stopped short, turned, and addressed the seeker respectfully, “Yes sir?”  
  
“I just came from my lab.” Starscream was fuming, that was clear. His optics were blazing and his field was a hot mess. Fang knew to tread carefully. Starscream wasn’t as dangerous as Megatron, but the seeker would sometimes also lash out at innocent people when he was angry. The difference was the level of damage. Starscream generally restricted his outbursts to a hard backhand, perhaps followed by a swift kick. Megatron killed people.  
  
And Fang wasn’t even innocent. He knew exactly why Starscream was pissed off..  
  
“That jet pack that I was working on for you?” Starscream made an angry, slashing gesture sideways through the air with one hand. “It’s gone. Some spawn of the Unmaker broke into my lab and took it.”  
  
“Oh.” Fang feigned disappointment, even forcing his field to emit the right frequencies. “I’m not happy to hear that.”  
  
Spawn of the Unmaker? He was no such thing! To wit: One Matrix, securely nestled up against his spark chamber, as proof otherwise!  
  
“You’re not happy? I need you more mobile!” Starscream slammed a fist against the wall, making a dent. “It’s an outrage. I am second in command of this army! Nobody breaks into my lab and gets away with it!”   
  
Deep inside, Fang was grinning. None of that amusement, however, reached his expression or his field. He maintained an aura of worried concern.  
  
“I want you to assign your best infiltrators to finding out who took it, and where it went. It was all done. I was going to have Thundercracker give you flying lessons today!”  
  
“Will do, boss. I’m sure it will turn up. I agree. It’s an outrage.” He couldn’t help but adding, “They must have been pretty good to break into your lab. The security is great.”  
  
“I’m thinking Soundwave’s runts,” Starscream said, darkly.  
  
“I’ll certainly check into it,” he said, then a sense of fair play made him add, “though I don’t know what use Soundwave would have for a jet pack. It would have been too big for any of his symbionts.”  
  
“Barricade, possibly. He’s small enough, and Soundwave uses him all the time.” Starscream bared his teeth. “Find out.”  
  
“Sure, will do.”  
  
As soon as the seeker was gone, Ohm peeked out of a crack in Fang’s armor, then slipped out and scrambled up Fang’s arm to his shoulder. The glitch mouse lifted one finger up in an insulting gesture in the direction the seeker had gone, then giggled.  
  
“Ohm, be nice,” Fang said, sternly. Ohm was getting cocky, and like most glitch mice, his judgement was often questionable. Fang didn’t want him getting squished because he got caught insulting the wrong mech behind their back.  
  
Fang wondered who he could implicate in the theft. He’d need to find a scapegoat, or Starscream would take the failure out of Fang’s own plating. He sighed, not liking the guilty feeling that thought caused -- feelings that were partly his, and partly from the Matrix. No Prime before him would have approved of such behavior, even though it was necessary for survival. In many ways, the Matrix was a nuisance. It had enough artificial intelligence of its own to have strong opinions on morality, and it did not like the idea that he would deliberately shift the blame to someone else. The stupid thing was showing him memories of other Primes who’d made ... less amoral ... decisions when faced with similar dilemmas.   
  
However, Primal guilt trips aside, Fang was learning that the Matrix definitely had its uses. Among them was the discovery that many Primes had been flight frames or had lived among fliers. Therefore, there were clear memories of flight in it, including basic beginner-level instructions for how to fly a Cybertronian energon-powered jet pack.  
  
That jet pack, and a larger twin to it that Fang had stolen from the Constructicon’s quarter’s, were now ash in the Pacific ocean, having burned up on atmospheric reentry. Starscream would never know what had happened to the one he’d built for Fang. Fang was still not fond of self-powered flight, but he was quite proud of himself for having made it all the way to moon from the Nemesis’s orbit around Earth, and back, without either getting caught or crashing, as well as having programmed the bigger pack to deliver the Autobot to Optimus.   
  
Yes, the Matrix was definitely a useful little gadget.   
  
Bemused, amused, and inordinately proud of himself, Fang decided a bit of celebration was in order. Still carrying Ohm on his shoulder, he headed for the commissary. While Fangface rarely indulged in high grade, he had a secret love of energon jellies, and he’d heard through the grapevine that Mixmaster had just completed a new batch. A handful of jellies would go down well ...  
  
The Matrix stirred, pointing out a subtle unfairness.  
  
Fang grinned, baring his teeth in a genuine smile.  
  
Three jellies: One for himself, one for Deathwheels, and one for Amp. Ohm didn’t fuel with energon, but Fang had learned Ohm loved rust sticks -- he did consume some solids to provide his nanytes with the metals required for repairs. The two minicons, and Deathwheels, had earned the treats, as much as Fang had. They could celebrate together. After all, Death had hacked Starscream’s lab’s security, but it had been Amp and Ohm who had created the massive distraction that had enabled Fang to slip out unnoticed and disappear for two whole days.   
  
There was a whole pack of glitch mice in the engine room. The powerful EM fields drew them, and they were arguably useful, because they could fit into spaces where no other mech could go. Amp had snuck Ohm into the engine room, under the guise of running an errand for Fang -- he’d done so two days before the distraction had occurred, so it couldn’t be traced back to them.   
  
It helped that most Decepticons couldn’t tell one of the little maintenance mechs from another, didn't care to learn, and they certainly didn’t count them, so it had been easy for Ohm to blend in with the crown. Glitch mice also didn’t talk, so it wasn’t like the locals could tell anyone that they had a stranger in their midst.  
  
At the appointed time, Ohm had sent a powerful surge of electricity through the Nemesis’s engines, sparking a large energon fire. Even more impressive, he'd made it look like an accident -- he'd picked a fight with another glitch mouse, and "accidentally" zapped an instrument console instead of his opponent.   
  
It had taken days to first get the fire out, and then repair the damage. The uproar had been enormous, and while the Nemesis had never even remotely been in danger of being lost, the damage had outraged and enraged Megatron. Megatron was still on a tear. Megatron’s dangerously foul mood was a massive distraction in and of itself. Everyone was attempting to keep out of Megatron’s way, and given Megatron’s recent displeasure with Fang, nobody in power had questioned his disappearance for a few days -- “laying low and working on the mines” was a perfectly plausible excuse, and one that Starscream had actively sanctioned.   
  
Starscream might not personally like Fang, but he valued him, and Starscream had long ago learned to keep his most valued possessions out of Megatron's sight as much as possible. Fang knew the score, and was perfectly willing to stay out of sight. Part of the time, "staying out of sight" had been as far away as Earth's moon, but Starscream was unaware of that, and Death had covered for him perfectly.  
  
Fang, for his part, was incredibly proud of Ohm, and Amp, who’d done exactly as he’d directed, and had performed flawlessly. Amp now had the glyph of a junior lieutenant engraved on his shoulder, and Ohm would get his neural upgrades -- and an upgrade into a larger frame -- as soon as Fang could scavenge the parts. For a glitch mouse to be as reliable as Ohm was remarkable, and indicated significant spark gifts trapped in severely limited frame. Fangface wanted to see him given every advantage to better himself possible, and the first step for that would be upgrades.  
  
As he stepped into the commissary, he absently, thoughtlessly, reached up to scritch Ohm on the head. Ohm leaned into the touch with a pleased chirp.  
  
“Ooooooh, Fang’s got vermin.” A rough voice growled.   
  
Fang jumped, spun, and then glared at the Praxian who was only a few feet taller  -- but a lot heavier -- than he was. “Barricade,” he said, coolly, even as Ohm bristled and growled from Fang’s shoulder. Few mecha carried glitchmice now, as they created a minor drain on a mech’s energy levels, but before the war, when energon had been more plentiful, it had been quite common. Among the many, many, secrets that Fang kept close to his spark was that his frame was extremely energy efficient. Not even the medics knew, because he deliberately ran his systems hard when he went into the med bay. He could support a dozen Ohm-sized glitch mice on his normal ration without feeling the strain.  
  
The black-and-white mech loomed over him, standing in Fang’s space. Fang stared up at him, refusing to retreat, or show fear. Barricade's field was a roiling mess of chaotic darkness; that, alone, would have been cause for many mecha to retreat, but Fang was a master at hiding his reactions. He was reasonably sure that Barricade got off on fear, enjoyed it, and Fang wasn’t about to give Barricade any jollies by allowing the mech to intimidate him. Behind Barricade, a few of the other usual suspects for causing trouble were lining up, including Wildrider and Swindle. Fangface outranked all of them, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t give him trouble if they thought he was weak.  
  
Starscream expected Fang to be able to defend himself, or if he got on the wrong side of a bully too large for him to  handle, to form alliances with mecha who could. Starscream was far too busy to be running to the defense of his staff over minor scuffles.   
  
Fang _could_ take Barricade in a fight, and had before, but he would rather not get into a scrap right now. His hip was injured, and he didn't need any more repairs. However, he sized Barricade up anyway, just in case this escalated to a physical level.

The Praxian was filthy. He was covered in soot, scuffed, scratched, and he smelled of burnt energon. It was easy to conclude he’d been busy on the fire suppression team, and then likely cleaning up afterwards. That would have been hard, miserable, filthy work, some of it in vacuum (they’d finally put the fire out by blowing the atmosphere) and the rest in smoky, vent-clogging nasty air. However, there wasn't anything visibly wrong with him. He looked to be in peak fighting form -- which was probably why he was trying to bully Fang. Fang had beaten him into the ground before, but Barricade had been injured then, and sporting fewer combat mods. The Praxian likely wanted to test his luck again.

Some mecha _never_ learned. Barricade was outclassed by Fang, who was built from the struts out for close-quarters combat. Fang still might need to pound on him a bit to prove that point.   
  
“What do you want, Barricade?” Fangface said, feigning boredom.   
  
Barricade said, “That the only ‘face buddy you can find, Minicon?”  
  
“Ohm’s a youngling,” Fang said, mildly. “I don’t face with younglings. Why are you asking?”  
  
Barricade’s expression turned truly vile. “Funny how everyone else has been on clean-up duty and you’ve been missing. You’re never around when there’s dirty work to be done.

  
“Not much for fights, either,” Wildrider muttered. Wildrider, to Fang's knowledge, wasn't glitched like Barricade. He was just very young, very impulsive, and had anger management issues. Fang privately thought that he could do a lot with Wildrider, possibly after kicking some sense into him by firm application of foot to aft, but so far, Starscream had resisted assigning the youngling to Fang's team. Fang, Starscream insisted, was only supposed to be in command of the _minicons_. (Deathwheels aside.)  
  
“Oh, I can fight,” Fang purred, letting his claws extend but keeping his field and expression neutral. His words didn’t match his field; his field gave nothing of his emotions away, and his words were cheerful. He’d found that combination was more menacing than a snarl. It kept his enemies guessing. “And as far as what I’ve been doing, I’ve been busy keeping energon coming in from my troops’ mine. If you didn’t hear the news, I’ve had my own fires to put out after that Autobot raid, and it’s kept me quite busy.”  
  
Actually, Deathwheels had handled personnel reallocation and general administrative duties, and two of Fang’s more senior insecticon lieutenants had been on the ground getting the new mine site up and running. Given the amount of work involved, Fang probably owed Deathwheels more than just a jelly in thanks. Maybe two jellies.  
  
Barricade’s expression twisted into a dark grin. “You can fight, but what about your midgets? I hear you lost one to Soundwave recently.”  
  
“Replacing Scurry is an irritation that I hope I won’t have to repeat any time soon,” Fang bared his teeth in a not-a-grin. He let his control over his field go, and the commissary was filled with blatant threat that he’d carefully kept masked until now. Ohm, probably reacting to the truly vile feel in Fang’s field squeaked, leaped from Fang’s shoulder, and ran. Ohm didn’t want to get caught up in the middle of a fight.   
  
Unfortunately, that was exactly the wrong thing for Ohm to do. Faster than thought, Barricade lunged. He caught the glitch mouse in one hand, and Fang’s spark seemed to freeze in his chest. He didn’t dare leap to Ohm's defense, both because it could trigger Barricade to greater violence, and because he didn’t want the others on the crew to think he was emotionally attached to the little mech.  
  
Then, he remembered Ohm was a glitch mouse.  
  
“You probably don’t want to do that,” Fang said, lightly. He reined his field back in. He’d made his point. Wildrider had taken two steps back. Swindle, no fool, and all coward, was all the way across the commissary.  
  
Ohm peered between Barricade’s fingers, visibly trembling.   
  
“Whatcha gonna do, kitty-kitty?” Barricade said. “There’s lots of glitch mice on this ship. They’re worse than vermin. I think I’ll keep this one for entertainment, unless you’re ... fond ... of it.”  
  
“That glitch mouse is one of my staff. I’ve spent considerable time training him and he’s under my protection. I would appreciate not needing to train another.” Fang lifted one shoulder up in half a shrug. “That said, he doesn’t actually need much protection. He’s got my permission to defend himself.”  
  
“He’s neutered, right?” Barricade said, sudden alarm crossing his face. It was, normally, standard practice to throttle back the discharge speed of the capacitors belonging to glitch mice that were handled by soldiers.   
  
Fang grinned. “Nope. Just well trained. Why would I want to defang a glitch mouse who works with me in the field? I might need his sting some day.”  
  
Barricade dropped Ohm, rather frantically -- most sparklings, at one point or another, tangled with feral glitch mice, and the result was a life-long aversion to being zapped again. (Fang suspected those early life experiences were also why glitch mice were generally distrusted by most Cybertronians, though they were actually slow to “bite” due to the necessity of recharging their capacitors after they whammied someone.)  
  
Ohm squeaked, hit the ground with a clatter, and started to run for the cover of a crate of supplies in the commissary. Fang said sharply and firmly, “Ohm, to me, now.”  
  
Ohm skidded to a halt, hesitated, and then, when Fang frowned at him, scampered to Fang’s leg, ran up it, and returned to Fang’s shoulder. Fang refrained from patting him (even though his first impulse was to inspect Ohm to see if he was injured) and said to Barricade, “You might do well to remember that Soundwave can only protect you so far, Barricade. Don’t tempt me; I can beat you in a fair fight and I’m sneakier than you.”  
  
Barricade glared at him.  
  
“If you’d like to test my fighting abilities, be my guest, but you might talk to Skywarp first.” Fang chewed on a claw for a second. “I’m one of Starscream’s commanders because I’m perfectly capable of beating most seekers in close-quarters combat.”  
  
“You wouldn’t dare hurt me,” Barricade hissed.  
  
“The question is, would Soundwave defend you, if you started it?” Fang mused. “Starscream certainly thought Skywarp had it coming last week. Soundwave’s even more logical than Starscream.”  
  
Barricade was silent for a long, long, moment. Fang had figured Barricade out a long time ago -- the slagger was a sadistic glitchhead, with his emotions likely virus addled, but he didn’t lack for logic. He was smart. Soundwave didn’t employ many glitchheads, but Barricade, for all his avid enjoyment of cruelty, was no fool. He’d earned his place.  
  
“Besides,” Fang added, with what he hoped was perfect timing, “if you piss me off, I won’t play card games with you any more.”  
  
Barricade grunted. “I still think you should have been cleaning up after the fire with the rest of us. Your rank isn’t high enough to get you out of that sort of slag. Thundercracker and Skywarp were even working on it.”  
  
“Trust me, I would much rather have been doing repairs than processing paperwork. Do I look like I’m built to sit still for long periods of time? Unfortunately, someone has to make sure the energon keeps flowing, particularly since we lost that moon --- what was it called, Nieryl Six? -- to the Autobots and lost at Egypt and lost the mine in Brazil. The mines on earth don’t produce a huge amount, but they do at least make enough to keep the Nemesis and her crew fueled. You’re drinking the labor of my troops’ hard work.”  
  
Logic. Barricade, for all his flaws, did understand logic. The Praxian flicked his door wings up and back. “I’ve got my optics on you, runt.”  
  
 “Like what you see?” Fang said, with a leer.  
  
“Freak,” Barricade growled, and brushed past him. Swindle and Wildrider followed; Wildrider would probably have deliberately jostled Fang if Fang hadn’t grabbed Ohm and held him up in a threatening manner while smirking. Wildrider lost quite a bit of face when he recoiled so fast that he nearly fell.   
  
“Sorry for the manhandling,” Fang murmured, putting Ohm back on his shoulder. “And next time, do not run. I will defend you, kiddo.”  
  
Ohm nodded, and signed, //Fang -- protect Ohm.//  
  
“That’s right.”   
  
//Ohm -- protect Fang.// Ohm rested a hand on Fang’s finial crest.   
  
“That’s right, too.” His spark felt unaccountably warmer at Ohm’s declaration of loyalty. He reached up and patted the youngling. “C’mon, let’s go get those goodies.”  
  
//Energon goodies!// Ohm signed, and bounced happily.   
  
Fang chuckled. “And someday, you’ll actually be able to eat them.”  
  
//Ohm happy everyone happy!//  
  
“You’re just happy because we like them?”  
  
Ohm nodded cheerfully.  
  
Fang shook his head. “Kid, you were born in the wrong army.”  
  
Ohm signed, firmly, //Ohm happy safe Fang, protect Fang, Fang happy goodies, Ohm happy ...// and was still “chattering” away with rapidly moving hands as Fang approached the commissaries’  drone, placed his order, and passed over a handful of credits. He handed Ohm a rust stick to gnaw on (on impulse, he’d purchased a few extra -- the kid was just too cute not to spoil a bit) and then padded back out into the corridor.   
  
Thundercracker was leaning against the wall. When he saw Fang emerge, the seeker straightened up. His attention was clearly on Fang, and he tilted his head in greeting.  
  
Fang stopped short, wary but not as concerned as he had been with Barricade. Thundercracker’s body language wasn’t hostile. “Can I help you?”  
  
Thundercracker said, “Would you walk with me, Fang?”  
  
“... okay.”  
  
Thundercracker was a quiet mech, but Fang wasn’t fooled. The seeker was intelligent in ways that few Decepticons were. He wasn’t surprised when Thundercracker finally said, after they’d traveled for a few minutes in the direction of Fang’s lair, “Starscream says you’re good at minor repairs.”  
  
“I am.”   
  
The seeker let out a long, slow, vent. “I need ... discretion.”   
  
“Starscream know you need discretion?”  
  
Thundercracker blinked his small red optics slowly. “No. Nor can he.”  
  
“What’s in it for me?”   
  
“Escape.” Thundercracker lifted a shoulder and wing up in half a shrug.   
  
Fang got it. He knew exactly what Thundercracker was asking. Megatron had throttled Skywarp’s mind, but Thundercracker, by contrast, was operating under restrictions to his transwarp engines. He was slower than any other seeker, specifically so he couldn’t take Skywarp and run.   
  
They’d reached the lair. Fang stepped through the doorway, and held it open with a hand in front of the sensor so Thundercracker could squeeze through. Thundercracker’s presence created a ripple of astonishment in the denizens of the lair, though there weren’t as many residents as there had been several days ago -- most of Fang’s soldiers were on earth. The twenty mecha remaining were all his support staff and officers.  
  
“Back to work,” Fang said, mildly, to the ones who looked inclined to stare. As he crossed the room, he left Ohm with Amp; Amp was seated cross legged on top of a work bench with a datapad full of production reports, and barely noticed when Ohm snuggled up against his hip. He did spare Thundercracker a sharp look before clearly dismissing him as Not My Problem and Not A Threat.  
  
Fang said, gesturing towards a door at the back of the large room, “Thundercracker, my office is as secure as I can make it.”  
  
The seeker stepped into Fang’s office. “Bigger than I expected.”  
  
“You’ve met Deathwheels. He takes his duty to guard me seriously. He tends to loom in a corner while I work. I think he’s convinced Ravage might pop out of the vents some day and try to kidnap me. Means I need more floor space than I would otherwise.”   
  
Thundercracker huffed. “I’m surprised you didn’t get a goon before now.”  
  
“I’m not as vulnerable as I look.” Fang grinned, baring teeth. “But he does keep the riff-raff off, that’s for sure.”  
  
“Not that you need that much help. I overheard you handling Barricade. That was well done. I was sure he was going to kill your glitch mouse.” Thundercracker rubbed a hand over his face. “Look, I’ll come right to the point. Things are getting bad, and we both know it. You’re ... better than this place, Fang.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Fang said, confused by the latter.  
  
“You could have killed Skywarp. Many would have. You’re ... you’re not like the other officers.”  
  
“I work for Starscream. Killing ‘Warp would have been stupid.”  
  
“Yes, but few ‘cons think that far ahead. Or realize that Starscream does, actually, protect us.” Thundercracker leaned against the wall, folded his arms across his chassis, and regarded Fang for a long moment. “You’ve never known anything but war, have you?”  
  
Shortly, Fang answered, “I was created in a lab. The project was cancelled when the scientist who created me quit. They sent me out with the other cannon fodder into battle. I survived. And survived again. And again. So, no, other than a few years in a lab as a sparkling, I’ve never known anything but the army. Your point?”  
  
“My point is,” Thundercracker said, softly, “that I don't think Skywarp will survive to the end of the war, and I don’t think I will, either. You ... you have potential beyond just being another mid-level officer. I can help you see that potential realized ...  beyond the confines of this army.”  
  
“I know I do,” Fang agreed, with a grin, then sobered. “Thundercracker, I know what you’re suggesting. And I can’t.”  
  
The seeker’s field thrilled with alarm. He most likely had believed Fang’s reputation for being cowardly and lazy, and had expected the predacon to leap at the chance to get away from the war. If Fang didn’t want to run, he could present a damage to the seeker simply by knowing his plans. Looking genuinely surprised, Thundercracker straightened up. “I thought you’d be happy to leave.”  
  
“Would you leave Skywarp behind?” Fang countered.  
  
“Oh. I wasn’t aware ... if you have a lover, of course we could accommodate them, too ...”  
  
“No.” Fang shook his head. “I don’t have a lover. But I have responsibilities, and ... and plans.”  
  
Thundercracker was silent for a very long moment. “I see.”  
  
“I won’t tell anyone about this discussion.” Fangface chewed on a claw for a moment. “And ... and if you can find the parts you need, I can install them.”  
  
“What’ll it cost?”  
  
Fang looked up at the seeker. The Matrix stirred in his chest, warm with approval at Fang’s next words. He said, simply, “Not ‘cost’ but ‘time’. I won’t do it until the war’s over, or until the leadership approves and we can trust you not to run. So -- you’re just going to have to keep yourself alive until then. But ... but I will help you, Thundercracker, in any way I can, and not for a ‘cost’. You’re one of the most experienced and skilled Seekers in the Decepticon Army. You’re also one of the sanest. Our people need you, as a leader, both now and after the war.”  
  
Thundercracker was silent. Suspicion radiated from his frame.  
  
“I know you just want to leave this war behind,” Fangface, impulsively, rested a hand on Thundercracker’s arm, even though he had to reach way up to do it. “Thundercracker, no matter how far you go, you’ll always be Cybertronian, and you’ll always be a Decepticon. If you jump ship, you’ll find no safe refuge anywhere -- not among neutrals, Autobots, or Decepticons, and not among other galactics. You will be unwelcome even after the war is over, I suspect, for none would respect you. How will you obtain energon, parts, repairs? I know you love Skywarp, but can you face spending the rest of your existence with only him as your companion, thieving what you need and dodging execution from anyone who caught you?”  
  
Thundercracker was silent, for a moment. Then he said quietly, “One of the reasons I asked you ... you’re good company. And you’re resourceful.”  
  
Fang smiled briefly at the compliment. “Tcha! Wait until you know me better and tell me that again. You’ve never seen me on a bad day. And -- Thundercracker, as hard as it is, even if you no longer believe in the cause, I truly believe your only option is to fight, and fight, and survive, and survive, until some day, the war is over, and you’ve come out the other side. It’s not about ideology anymore, not for any of us. It’s just about survival.”  
  
Thundercracker sighed. “I shouldn’t have come to you.”  
  
“I won’t tell anyone about this conversation.” Fang said, more calmly than he felt. “I often feel the same way you do. All I want to do is leave. But -- you have Skywarp to look out for, and I have my mecha. It’s not one mech, Skywarp. It’s hundreds that I am responsible for. And that’s why I could never go with you. I couldn’t live with myself if I abandoned them. And much as I’m honored by your offer, you couldn’t fit all of them in your subspace.”   
  
Thundercracker barked a surprised laugh at the last observation. “Yes, that could be a problem.”  
  
Fang squeezed Thundercracker’s arm firmly. “Thundercracker, I’ll see you in the rec tomorrow night. I feel like losing my wages again to your card skills.”  
  
The seeker barked a startled laugh. “Yeah, sure, kid. Skywarp’ll be there too.”  
  
“Oh, goody, maybe I can actually win against someone for once.”   
  
Thundercracker snorted. “I owe you, for Skywarp. And -- I trust you. For what it’s worth.”  
  
Fangface said, very seriously, “And I won’t betray your trust, Thundercracker. I swear it.”


	9. Chapter 9

Optimus had said don't hide him.  
  
Practically speaking, hiding Wheelie was impossible.  
  
Arcee, at least, could generate the hologram of a pretty young woman. Said pretty young woman was currently downstairs in front of his dorm, leaning against "her bike." Her hologram was gorgeous enough to draw the attention of the occasional passing man; when Sam had pointed that, perhaps, a less attractive hologram might draw less interest from passing humans, Arcee had laughed and said, "Do you think I really mind?"  
  
Apparently, Bee wasn't the only 'bot who was amused by flirting.  
  
"Ooooooooh!" Wheelie exclaimed, emerging from the dorm room's closet with a whole stack of old CD's. "You have music!"  
  
Sam glanced up from his homework. "Careful, those scratch easy."  
  
"Why CDs? Why not an MP3 player?" Wheelie took the first one out of its case and, to Sam's bemusement, scanned it. A red light shone from Wheelie's good eye. He exclaimed, "Metallica! Goooooood music!"  
  
"I haven't had time to rip them," Sam said, absently.  
  
At that moment, the dorm door opened. Wheelie dropped the CD and dove under the bed's rumpled covers, making a robot-shaped lump on the bed. He also wasn't fast enough to avoid being seen. Leo, and Leo's new girlfriend, stared at the bed in surprise. Sam, with a frown, picked his CD up off the ground.  
  
Leo said, incredulously, "That's not that ... you brought that thing to school with you?"  
  
Sam, not looking up from his laptop said, "Yes."  
  
Leo's girlfriend - her name was Bethany - said, "Wait. Wait. That was one of the robots from TV? One of the ones that saved the world? It's here?" Bethany stared at Wheelie, who twitched when he realized he'd been seen. And then he tensed up and muttered audibly when she added, "I thought it would be a lot bigger!"  
  
"It's not an it, it's a he," Sam said, resignedly. "Wheelie, come out. There's not even a point in hiding."  
  
Wheelie stuck his head out. Saw Bethany. And purred, with enthusiasm, "A girl!"  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. "Wheelie, I will punt you if you say or do anything inappropriate."  
  
"I'll tell Optimus," Wheelie pouted.  
  
"Be my guest. I don't think you'll find a sympathetic audience there, buddy," Sam reached out, flicked the 'bot in the head with one finger. Wheelie attempted to bite his finger, but he was ready for that, and Wheelie's toothy jaws clicked on air. "More to the point, if you want the pretty girl," he glanced at Bethany, who was anything but beautiful, unfortunately, "To like you, you will not hump her leg, wolf whistle at her, or suggest any inappropriate activities whatsoever. Is that clear?"  
  
Bethany was staring at the 'bot with very wide eyes. "He does that?"  
  
"To Mikaela." Leo giggled. "It was pretty funny. Sam kicked him."  
  
Sam hastily assured her, "You can't judge Autobots by Wheelie. He's not one. He's a Decepticon."  
  
"I AM so an Autobot!" Wheelie, hands balled on his hips, glared up at Sam. He was absolutely quivering with outrage. "Optimus said I could join! He said! I swore allegiance! You lie!"  
  
Sam gave the other two humans in the room a pained expression. "He's also operating on about the level of a two year old child, I think."  
  
"Am not a child!"  
  
"Wheelie, I am older than you." Sam patted him on the head.  
  
"It doesn't work the same for Cybertronians. We're a lot more precocial than humans when we're created, and we have a faster initial learning curve, too." Wheelie was pouting. "Besides, I spent thousands of years in stasis. That makes me older than you, buddy."  
  
"Time in stasis doesn't count, runt." Sam realized, belatedly, how this argument must look to Leo and Bethany and looked up again at them. "Err, seriously. He's not a good example of the 'bots."  
  
Bethany suddenly squeaked. Leo pointed past Sam's shoulder, and said, in a somewhat nervous tone of voice, "I think that's one of the better examples."  
  
Sam turned around in his desk chair to see a pair of glowing blue eyes, framed by neon yellow, peering through the open second floor dorm room window, on the other side of the desk. Shocked, Sam snapped, "Bee! Are you insane?"  
  
Bee drooped visibly, "But Optimus said we don't have to hide anymore ... and Sam, I need to talk to you ..."  
  
"Yeah, and I'd like to have a normal life!" Sam covered his face with one hand, and shook his head briefly, before surfacing again and pointing a finger sternly in the general direction of the parking lot. "Get! Shoo! Parking lot!" Sam bent over in his chair, grabbed Wheelie by the waist, and chucked him out the window in Bee's direction. "And babysit the runt while you're at it!"  
  
"Fuck you, asswipe!" Wheelie shouted, from somewhere below the level of the window. Sam watched the back of Bee's head retreat without getting up from his chair. Bee stopped after a few strides, then his head dropped down and disappeared from view. There had been no distinctive noise of an Autobot transformation, so he figured Bumblebee had bent over. With absolutely no surprise, he heard a growing crescendo of excited voices.  
  
Sam covered his face with his hands, and said through his fingers, "Please tell me he's not drawing a crowd. Please?"  
  
Leo walked to the dorm's other room and looked out the window with interest. Brightly, he said, "He's a fifteen foot tall yellow robot on a college campus with an enormous engineering department. He's drawing a crowd. Somebody just asked to see how his hand articulates."  
  
"You were kinda mean to him," Leo's girlfriend said, uncertainly.  
  
"Who, Wheelie? He'll get over it." Sam closed his laptop. Clearly, there would be no studying this afternoon.  
  
Leo shook his head vigorously. "To Bee, she means. Sam, Bee's your friend. Why'd you do that?"  
  
Defensively, Sam said, "He knows he's not supposed to draw attention to himself. I don't care if Optimus says he can lay off the subterfuge a bit. I still don't want him walking around campus. Can you imagine what the school will say? Wheelie's bad enough - I'm trying to figure out if he qualifies as a pet or an extra roommate who's not attending the school. Either way, he's not actually allowed."  
  
"Wheelie's a robot, half the geeks in the school have robots in their rooms. Yours is just a little more advanced. And - Bee's nice." Leo said, sturdily, earning a black look from Sam. Leo continued, a little less certainly, but voice growing stronger as he spoke, "Look, the damn robots pretty much scare the damn crap out of me, but Bumblebee? Bumblebee is a golden retriever with tires, and he adores you and Mikaela. He'd die for you two, literally. Do you treat all your friends that way?"  
  
"I ..." Sam suddenly rose so he could see what was going on outside. Bumblebee, it turned out, was down on one knee, signing autographs for a growing mob.  
  
Signing autographs.  
  
Somebody had found him a very, very large marker. He was holding it pinched between thumb and forefinger with great care. People were crowding around and asking questions and handing him objects to sign. It was ludicrous. Surreal. Sam completely expected an entire armada of Decepticons to come pouring out of the heavens, or perhaps the military to descend en mass on Bee and haul him away in a block of ice. Instead, people were flocking to him as if he was some sort of superstar. And Bee seemed to completely be in his element.  
  
Bumblebee noticed someone's rock t-shirt, and played a clip of music to match the band. His speakers were good enough to rattle the windows of the nearby buildings. The owner of the t-shirt began to dance in response. Bee, who loved music second only to life itself, joined in with surprisingly good grace for a sixteen foot tall, multi-ton alien robot. And just like that, the crowd started to bop with him.   
  
Bee, it turned out, could break dance. Quite well. Though the lawn was suffering a bit.  
  
Sam beat his head against the window frame in time with the music. He could see that some of the people in the crowd had cell phones aimed at Bee, and in the distance, he could see someone running across the parking lot with a large professional video recorder up on one shoulder.  
  
"I don't get you," his roommate said, sounding annoyed. "You could be the most popular guy on campus. You saved the world and your best friend's a space alien with ..." Leo regarded the scene below with a grin, "... some sick moves. And you're complaining about this?"  
  
"Dude, I don't want to be popular," Sam paused from banging his forehead. "I want to be normal. Low profile. I want to go to my classes and hang out with my friends and ..."  
  
He trailed off as he remembered most of those friends were big, decidedly not low-profile robots. Including the one who was pretty much his best friend in all the world, who was currently - to the enormous delight of a very large and rapidly crowd - doing a surprisingly good moonwalk. Normal? Not happening.  
  
"Uh-oh, there's the dean!" Leo announced. The man was approaching the impromptu jam session in a small electric golf cart.  
  
Sam looked up. "Oh, crap!" He ran for the door. This could be ugly!  
  
Mikaela met him halfway up the stairs. Her eyes were dang near shooting lasers at him. He guessed she'd seen his outburst - which he was growing more and more guilty about. Bee was his best friend. "Sam Witwicky, what the hell was that about ..."  
  
"I ... uh ... he's having fun ..."  
  
"No." Mikaela said, very clearly. "He's doing PR and putting on a good show for the crowd, which he considers one of his duties at the moment. I sincerely doubt he's 'having fun' given the mood he was in to start with. What the hell is your problem, Sam?"  
  
"I ..." She was mad. Maybe he had crossed the line, but damnit, he'd made it clear to Bumbeblee and the other 'bots on multiple different occasions that he didn't want them to draw attention to him. He'd originally even told Bumblebee not to follow him to college at all ... which Bee had ignored, and with very good reason, but still. Bee knew his feelings on the matter. He wanted to be a normal kid for once. If Bee needed to talk, Bee had his cell phone number.  
  
"We'll talk. Later." Mikaela made it sound like a threat. "Right now, we've got bigger problems. Bee's going to keep Wheelie busy for tonight. They had a new 'bot arrive, he's in pretty bad shape, and he's an old friend of all the others. Bumblebee was pretty bad shook up. Optimus is very clear he doesn't want Wheelie knowing about this 'bot, and I think he's worried about the human soldiers. He asked us to get back to the base, and it would have been real helpful if you'd just caught a ride with one of Arcee rather than making Bee drive me out here."  
  
"You could have called me," he said, defensively.  
  
"Cell phone communications are being monitored, remember?" she growled at him. "It was easier to just come get you than play twenty-questions-and-no-answers with you, when the Decepticons could figure things out from what we weren't saying just as easily as they could from what we are! What's your deal with Arcee, anyway?"  
  
"She damn near killed me."  
  
"And she said she was sorry, and Ratchet made her study what he termed 'human design tolerances.'" Mikaela, apparently, had gotten the story, likely either from Bee or Optimus himself.  
  
Outside, the music stopped. A chorus of annoyed whines rose from the gathered crowd. Bee's voice, pitched to carry, said, "Don't worry. I'll be here all the time. I've got a friend here. I'm his ride."  
  
The crowd laughed.  
  
Sam emerged as many of the people were dispersing. Bee had stopped dancing, was sitting down on the ground, and the presence of the dean was encouraging most of the kids to move along. Those that remained were listening intently, however, as Bee had turned serious. The dean was standing a bit farther back than the students had, and as Sam approached he overheard the man ask, "... so you're protecting us?"  
  
"Yup," Bumblebee assured them. "But I'm off duty right now. I'm just dropping a friend off, if that's okay."  
  
The man pointed at the grass, which had been torn up badly by Bee's feet. "Just not on the grass, if you please. If you're going to dance for the kids, there's a sand pit beyond the dorms that we use for volleyball that can take the abuse better."  
  
"Oh." Bee drooped visibly. "I'm sorry about that."  
  
The dean shook his head. "Its okay, don't worry about it ... I've been reading about you guys online. It's an amazing story. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen that Decepticon-robot here a couple weeks ago, and saw you saving your friends. That was you, right? The president said ... and the media ... Did you really save all of Earth last week? All of us? The whole thing?"  
  
Bee shrugged. "It was me. And we are here because we can't let the Decepticons win."  
  
The man was silent for a long moment. Finally, in a voice that was shaking, he said, "Thank you."  
  
Bee's eyes irised shut in a startled blink at the man's simple statement. Then he replied, not with his own voice, but with one of his movie quotes, in a deep western drawl, "Aw, shucks!" Before the man could come up with another response, Bee noticed Sam and Mikaela walking across the grass. He looked up, and when he saw them, he waved happily.  
  
Sam's guilt doubled. He had been rude to Bumblebee, and Bumblebee had probably already forgiven and forgotten. Wheelie, on the other hand, had him fixed with a positively deadly glare that was a twin of the look in his girlfriend's eyes.  
  
"Bee," Mikaela said, "We're going to go run some errands. Can you keep an eye on Wheelie?"  
  
"Sure, Mikaela." Bee reached down and patted Wheelie on the head. Wheelie growled and stepped several strides away from the much larger Autobot. "Wheelie can keep me company."  
  
"I want to go with my Warrior Goddess!" Wheelie folded his arms and glared up at Bumblebee.  
  
"Sorry, runt," Bee said, not sounding nearly as apologetic to Wheelie as he had to the dean over the grass. "You're stuck with me for the rest of the day."  
  
Mikaela's battered mustang rattled and chugged down the highway, and Sam sort've wondered if they'd make it to the base at all. The thing had no hood and to make it go she'd had to worm her way into the engine cavity and beat on something with a ball peen hammer. At every stop something in the front of the car was shifting forward and going, THUNK! And after riding with the 'bots for almost a year, Mikaela's beater felt strange and dead to him, even aside from the vehicle's dubious mechanical soundness  
  
She was silent, and clearly mad at him. Bee might have already gotten over it, but Mikaela was still pissed. He tried again to explain, "Mikaela, I have asked Bumblebee lots of times to be discrete. He knows I don't ..."  
  
"What, you don't want to be seen with him?" She cut his words off. "Sam, you've got some choices to make. You want the 'bots as your friends, but you don't want the hassle of the publicity. Given the way things are going, you're probably going to have to chose. I've already made my choice."  
  
"Aren't you glad you got in the car?" he teased, trying to make her smile.  
  
The look she gave him had absolutely no sense of humor to it. "You hurt Bumblebee's feelings. Badly."  
  
"He was fine. You saw him!"  
  
"Bullshit." She shot him a brief glare. "He's not fine. You owe him an apology."  
  
"Okay, fine, I'll apologize."  
  
She reached into her purse and handed him her cell phone. "Right now."  
  
Uncertainly, he took it. He really didn't think that Bee was nearly as upset as Mikaela did, but if it would make Mikaela happy ... he dialed the number to Bee's internal phone. Bumblebee answered brightly, "Hey, Mikaela! What's up?"  
  
"It's me, Bee. I'm using her phone. Umm ... I'm sorry for what I did, back at my room." There. That was enough, wasn't it?  
  
Bee was quiet for a very long time - long enough that he wondered if his call had been dropped. When the Autobot finally spoke, it was with a rare, completely serious tone. "Thank you, for the apology. Tell Mikaela I said thank you, also."  
  
Uh-oh. By that tone, and the implications in the 'bots words, he had truly hurt Bumblebee's feelings. Bee was assuming this apology was being forced by Mikaela, too. And he really didn't like what that said about how Bee perceived him.  
  
He recalled that it had been far from the first time that he'd done something like this. Once, it had been necessary, because Bee was effectively highly classified and top secret. But, even though Bee had proven that he could successfully hide as Sam's "car" for over a year, he'd still refused to allow Bumblebee to come with him to college. And before that ... well, he had often left Bee alone in the garage for days, even weeks, at a time, except for a perfunctory hello. He'd been caught up in his own life, and in a moment of crystal clarity he realized he had forgotten that when he was staying with the Witwickys, Bee really didn't have anyone to socialize with outside of him, Mikaela, and his parents.  
  
Cybertronians were social creatures. Bee had been all alone.  
  
"God, I'm sorry, Bee." This time he really meant it.  
  
Bee's answer surprised him a bit. "Sam, there have been times in my life when I've struggled to find my way. I'm younger than most of the other Autobots, and I'm a lot smaller than nearly all of the warriors. But I'm also not much of a scientist, I'm not particularly good at espionage, and I would prefer not to lead. Optimus insisted that I come on this mission, but if he'd picked a larger, more powerful 'bot, maybe Jazz and Jetfire would still be alive. Maybe you and Optimus would not have been hurt. Optimus had his pick of the Autobots, and he picked me, and I'm still not sure why."  
  
Sam swallowed hard, suddenly and unaccountably at a loss for words.  
  
Bee was also quiet for a moment, before adding, "I asked to stay with you for a reason, Sam, that goes beyond our friendship. I'm important, to you and Mikaela, and I didn't trust the others to take the responsibility of protecting you as seriously as I do ... you are my friends. And, sometimes, it feels good to be important to someone, and good to be a friend, too."  
  
"Oh. Geeze. But Optimus likes you."  
  
"He does," Bee agreed. "But if I were to die tomorrow, I could be replaced. I'm just another foot soldier, Sam. Not like ..." he trailed off, then said, "Optimus wants us to get to know the people of this world. He says they will not be afraid of us if they know us, and your president has agreed to that approach. That is why I did not bother to hide. However, if it makes you not fit in among the others, I will be more careful in the future to avoid drawing attention to our friendship."  
  
"Shut up, Bee," he said, with sudden feeling. "No. You don't need to hide. I'm proud to be your friend."  
  
"Thanks, Sam." Bumblebee sounded like he meant it. "Listen, we will talk later. I'm going to take Wheelie to the dunes by the lake and let him run some energy off. He's driving me nuts."  
  
"You too, huh?"  
  
With feeling, Bumblebee said, "Optimus is out of his mind on this one."

* * *

  
While Bee took Wheelie off to play at the dunes, Mikaela drove Sam to the base. There, Mikaela parked her ancient Mustang beside the road, and they picked their way down to the shore of the small lake. Over the last few hours an enormous tent had been erected, presumably to conceal the contents from passing satellites or spy planes overhead. It was late, and growing dark, and the tent glowed from within as it was lit by brilliant lights.

A semi-sized generator had been parked beside the tent, and a fuel tank beside it, and it sounded like the generator was running hard to meet the power demands of more than just mere lights.  
  
Ironhide was stood guard in front of the entrance and he said gruffly, "You two don't need to be here. This is Autobot business."  
  
Optimus's voice came from inside. "Ironhide, if that's Mikaela and Sam, let them in. We could use some small hands to help."  
  
Ironhide growled something under his breath, but he stepped aside and they pushed their way through the heavy canvas flap that served as a door.  
  
It was surprisingly cool in the tent - Mikaela spotted a bank of portable air chillers aimed at a pile of equipment. Some sort of mainframe, she thought, since it had monitors bolted to it. Cables ran from the computer to the fallen 'bot, who had been wrapped with the the biggest sheet of static-resistant mylar that Mikaela had ever seen in her life. She'd seen computer equipment come packaged in that stuff, but had never known it could be obtained in pieces big and thick enough to shroud an Optimus Prime sized 'bot.  
  
They'd set up tables, with bits of the 'bot arrayed on them. One third of Arcee was seated at one of them, and the other two thirds of her rolled past Mikaela and Sam and joined the project. She had the bot's head on the table. The head alone was at least three feet tall. Despite knowing that an Autobot's life force was not contained in the head - that it just held sensory arrays - Mikaela shuddered. Arcee, seated beside it, seemed to be doing some very delicate work with a microscope and tiny forceps.  
  
"Mikaela, could you help me out here?" Another third of Arcee summoned her over. "My hands are too big to fit. I need to reattach the auditory link to the mike, there ..." she pointed deep into the 'bots enormous head.  
  
Mikaela squinted past her and figured out what Arcee was gesturing at. Then she took the soldering iron from Arcee and reached into the cavity. Expertly, she reattached the wires. Arcee commented, with some surprise, "You look like you know what you're doing."  
  
"Not too different than fixing a wiring harness on a car," Mikaela said, without looking up from her work. She studied the tangle of wires she was working on and spotted something that was out of place. "Looks like this orange wire's a ground, right? Where does it go?"  
  
Arcee, watching over Mikaela's shoulder, said, "You're right. Orange is the ground, green is hot. We ground positive, by the way. And you can stick that ground anywhere to that black bit of framework that's holding the optical processor array ... we had to replace a strut because something arced out and it was burned through." Arcee offered a tiny metal screw, a clip, pliers, and an only slightly oversized drill to Mikaela. Mikaela squashed the clip over the end of the wire with the pliers and screwed it to an out-of-the-way place on the strut.  
  
They worked on the sensory apparatus in the 'bot's skull long into the night. Arcee, who mostly ended up directing Mikaela rather than doing the work herself, explained, "The reason I split into four bodies originally - three, now - was that I needed small hands to do this kind of work, and having some extra pairs of hands seemed useful. I was a weapons tech even before the war. But I wanted to keep the option of being big and kicking ass. However, I got an upgrade in power and size with the frame for this mission. Optimus said I'd need to fight. If I have to fight, if the team needs me, I'm more than willing, but ..." she looked down at her hands, which by Autobot standards were small and delicate while still being twice Mikaela's size. "There was a tradeoff."  
  
"Is it confusing having three bodies?" Mikaela asked, as she squinted through a low-powered microscope at a circuit board for an inertial sensor of human make. The fallen 'bot's old sensor had been cut out, something that likely would have rendered him so unstable that he would be unable to walk. While helping with the repairs, she had learned that Autobots had a network of sensors throughout their bodies that rivaled the human nervous system in complexity.  
  
The human sensor would probably work just fine, Arcee said. However, the sensor's pigtail of wiring and the matching socket just behind the 'bot's left eye did not even begin to be compatible, and there were issues with voltage and amperage that Arcee was grumbling about - another third of Arcee had a box of tiny transformers at the table, and was apparently designing something to fix that problem. Arcee had decided to hardwire the sensor to the 'bot's nervous system, and this meant that she directing was Mikaela, and Mikaela's tinier hands, in attaching hair-fine wires directly to the chip. She didn't have a clue what she was doing, really, except that Arcee was walking her through it. Arcee had taken one look at the chip and had figured out exactly what every nearly microscopic part of it did.  
  
Arcee's response to her question was a short laugh. "It uses a bit more processor power than I was expecting, but the tradeoff is that I can be in three places at once."  
  
"The other downside," Ratchet said, as he walked past, "Is that she's far more vulnerable when she's split up. And her spark is truly split between all three pieces. As she said, she was once four ... we thought we were going to lose her when the Megatron captured the fourth piece of her body, and destroyed it and one quarter of her spark with it."  
  
Arcee shrugged expressively and rolled backwards from the work table. "Just means I've got one foot in the grave now ... which is pretty much status quo anyway for us old soldiers. Ratchet - what do you think, should we upgrade his vision a bit when we work on his optic center? There's nothing wrong with his optic processor other than the sensory wires being cut, but look at this," she held up a tarnished silver box, "This is several tens of thousands years old and the new ones have a much higher acuity. He never was much for routine maintenance ... I can't believe he never had this upgraded. Anyway, we've got one that will fit him because he takes the same size as Optimus."  
  
"Yes, but let's keep his in reserve," Ratchet said. "I hate to resort to the junk yard method of repairs, but if we don't get a resupply ship in soon we may need it if either of them manage to slag theirs. As it stands, he's going to be more than fifty percent Earth make ... some of the parts we need just have no earth analog."

He then walked back to rejoin Optimus. The two of them were fashioning the basic framework of new limbs from scrap metal and Optimus, somewhat to Mikaela's surprise, seemed to be very good with a supersized plasma arc welder and some machining equipment. It was more than just casual knowledge. He handled the machinery like he'd done so extensively in the past. She knew welding, and used a welder regularly in the shop. She could teach someone to weld in a day, just the basics, but the sort of plasma welding Optimus was doing was art.

  
Mikaela commented, to Arcee, "Boss 'bot knows what's he's doing over there, doesn't he?"  
  
Arcee followed Mikaela's gaze. Mikaela expected to be reminded that they were robots and could download data from the internet as needed to perform specific tasks. She felt stupid, even as she said it. The Autobot learning curve had to be far shorter than the human one. However, Arcee's response was a bit wistful, "Optimus has a very long history, Mikaela. Once upon a time he was not a warrior, nor even our leader. Once he was just a worker."  
  
"He was a worker?" Somehow, picturing Optimus as anything but the leader of the Autobots was nearly impossible. She easily could picture him ruling an entire world. She had a hard time envisioning him as the Autobot equivalent of a blue-collar man.  
  
Arcee's voice was even softer when she replied, "He doesn't talk about it much. Ever, really. But Bee's known Optimus much longer than I have, and Bee says Optimus was never programmed to be a warrior - Optimus doesn't confide much in anyone, I believe he's never gotten over Megatron's betrayal, and he also does not want to burden us. But he has said a few things to Bumblebee that Bee's been able to share. He was designed to be a worker. He worked at a starship dock on one of Cybertron's moons, many many thousands of years ago. He was nearly destroyed somehow. They had him rebuilt with a bit of a power upgrade to military specs. That's all I really know ... from there he ended up carrying the Matrix of Leadership and ruled Cybertron with Megatron as his co-ruler until ..." She trailed off.  
  
"That's why he calls him brother?"  
  
"It's more than that. They're of the same batch of sparks. They've known each other since, effectively, birth - that ordinarily would mean they would be like twins - or triplets, actually, as there were three of them. At any rate, Optimus hates Megatron." Arcee glanced at the boss. "It's totally and completely justified to hate Megatron, you know. We all do. However, with Optimus, it's different. He's been going after Megatron for thousands of years with fairly singleminded determination."  
  
She pointed one finger at the battered head on the table. "Justified hatred."  
  
The 'bots worked long into the night on the robot. Ratchet produced military cots and blankets for Mikaela and Sam sometime around two AM; both of them were utterly exhausted, and they fell asleep at the back of the tent. When Mikaela awoke hours later, it was raining - she could hear the rushing nose of water beating against the canvas tent, and the occasional distant flash of lightning illuminated the fabric from outside.  
  
Sam was already up. When she went to see how far they'd gotten, she discovered that Arcee was finishing up the job of reattaching the head to the body, and the 'bot had the framework of new legs and hands. Under the mylar sheet, a liquid tide of silvery metal was flowing and rippling over the 'bot's body as if it were organically alive.  
  
"Nanobots," Ratchet said, when she asked. "They're setting up for a transformation. They'll modify the framework we built - they can't add anything, but they can alter the shape and size of the parts that are already there. He's so far gone he's reverted back to a protoform - he's lost his old alternate modes. He'll need to scan something when he wakes up. We're trying to find a civilian vehicle large enough and do you know how hard it is to rent an eighteen wheeler on short notice? We don't want him scanning something military, because that would stand out too much."  
  
"Is this going to work?" She'd caught the undercurrent of profound worry from the team.  
  
Ratchet made a noise like a sigh. "I really don't know. I can deal with ordinary stasis lock, but he was badly damaged and his subroutines have corrupted. Once we have the physical damage repaired, we're going to need to reboot his processor core. Restarting a bot's processers is a tricky, difficult process - we are not designed to be turned off any more than a human is designed to have their heart stop. Good way to lose containment on your spark ... humans would call that _dying_."  
  
He glanced briefly skyward. She thought he might be looking in the direction of their home world, so very far away. "The last time I did this sort of thing, it was before the war, on a mech whose exploration vessel was hit by an asteroid. Took out the engines. The mech powered down and activated a stasis field and spent almost a million of your years in transit back home using a solar sail. He had no physical damage, really, except for what was caused by radioactive decay ... we managed to bring him back, but I had all the resources I could want to do it. Last I heard, he was running a mining outfit on some remote alien world."  
  
Ratchet glanced at the mylar-shrouded form, and made a loose gesture at their fallen friend. "The big guy here wouldn't survive the trip to Cybertron, I'm not even sure the containment vessel on his spark would survive the G's to get to orbit. We don't have a starship in the area that's big enough, anyway. We've got that transport ship with some supplies that will arrive in the next few months, but he wouldn't fit in the hold. So, we might as well give it a go here -- if we can get him working, he'll be a hell of a nasty surprise for Megatron and we all agreed he'd want us to try to fix him here and not stick him in a warehouse somewhere until the war was over. We sure need him."  
  
"How are you handling an energon supply?" She asked Ratchet. The transport vessel was supposed to deliver some, but until then, she knew they were flat out of extra energon. The 'bots could charge their batteries off the grid if they ran out of energon, lending a whole new meaning to "down for recharge," but anything truly energy intensive -- say, transcanning a new form, or combat that involved firing frame-mounted weapons -- required actual energon.  
  
"We're all donating a little bit of our processed energon from our own lines to him," Ratchet said. "It'll be enough to power him for several weeks, plus enough for the transcan."  
  
"Oh. Sort've like donating blood?"  
  
"Something like that," Ratchet stepped forward when the nanobots stopped moving and scanned the still form with a small hand-held device. He turned to Optimus and said, "Looks like he's as ready as he'll ever be given the circumstances, Big Boss."  
  
"Everyone stand clear. Give him room." Optimus stepped back himself, as Ratchet walked to the Cybertronian mainframe. He pushed several buttons. For a long moment, there was no reaction from the 'bot. She imagined the last of his systems powering done. All was dark and cold in his body. And then, a trickle of power, then a cascade, as the generators he was attached to jump-started systems long dormant. He's alive! Alive! She thought, a bit giddily. A crack of thunder from the storm outside set the mood in her mind perfectly.  
  
And then ... the 'bot moved. In one frantic, fearful motion the he rolled wildly to his feet. Shredded bits of mylar drifted down. The cables attached to the mainframe and generators yanked free. The 'bot quivered with tension and he looked wildly about. Mikaela was suddenly glad that he had no weapons yet. He'd obviously been tortured near to death. His last memories were likely unpleasant, and mechs had eidetic memories.  
  
"It worked!" Arcee shouted. "Woohoo! It worked!"  
  
The Autobot jumped at the noise, then stared at her. His eyes were working wildly - irising down to points, rolling in his head, taking in the whole scene. He made twitchy, uncertain movements with his arms, and shifted his weight about.  
  
"Hello, old friend," Optimus said, calmly. He sounded concerned. And now that both 'bots were standing up, Mikaela could see the newcomer was a couple feet shorter than Optimus, but a little more massive through the chest and shoulders.  
  
The 'bot spun towards Optimus at his words. His irises twisted closed several times. He then looked the others over. His first words in English were a confused-sounding, "Where me at?"  
  
"Earth," Optimus said. "You are safe."  
  
"Where Earth?"  
  
Optimus said something in Cybertronian, and Mikaela guessed that he'd just given the 'bot coordinates that didn't have a good English translation. Optimus didn't generally speak in Cybertonian at all around the humans, because that would be rude, and Optimus was always polite to a fault. Optimus added, "We have already uploaded much of the basic language and cultural information you will need to your processors."  
  
He blinked again. "Me here before. Long way from Cyberton."  
  
Optimus said, voice incredibly gentle, "You have taken quite a bit of damage, old friend. We have fixed what we can, but this is a very primitive world. You're going to be a bit disoriented ..."  
  
The 'bot took a stumbling step forward. Mikaela and Sam scrambled out of the way as the Autobot shoved his way through the door. Optimus didn't try to stop him, and they all followed him. Outside, the 'bot fell to one knee in the pouring rain before the semi they'd brought in specifically for him to scan. He stared at it. And then, wordlessly, at them. And said, "Too ... obvious. Me hide while repairs done. Not fight yet. Fight again later."  
  
Ratchet murmured, behind Mikaela, "He's got some processor damage. Listen to him ... he's not correctly interpreting the English language module we uploaded. Damn it all to a sparkless abyss."  
  
"I dunno," Arcee replied back, "He's making more sense than he usually does. He's actually willing to wait before smashing Megatron."  
  
Mikaela's battered mustang was beside the semi. The 'bot's gaze fell upon it. "That," he said, decisively.  
  
"He can't possibly ..." Sam said, in disbelief.  
  
"Yeah, actually, he can." Ratchet was scanning the 'bot from behind. "Though I never would have thought he'd consider it. He likes big stuff normally, the bigger and badder the better."  
  
Far slower than Mikaela was used to seeing, he began to transform. It took several abortive attempts before he made it all the way into Mustang form, and she was pretty sure he'd used a Tardis to do it. There seemed to be no physical way that enormous 'bot had just folded himself into a hoodless 1968 Mustang. He'd even duplicated her license plate, and the crack in the windshield. How in the hell had he done that? She was pretty sure he massed as much, if not more, than Optimus.  
  
Ratchet, sounding impressed, said, "Mikaela, it looks like your car just got an upgrade."  
  
"Huh... what?"  
  
Sam muttered, "A fire would be an upgrade to that thing."  
  
"Yes, sending him with Mikaela is a good idea," Optimus said, to Ratchet. "We can hide him in plain sight ... we were going to send Hot Shot with her, but I believe this will work just as well."  
  
"Optimus!" Sam objected, "Mikaela's not a part of this war! You'd put her in danger ..."  
  
Ratchet snickered. "Biggest danger's going to be Mikaela's temper after a few days with him. Keep her away from the chain saws ..."  
  
Mikaela shot a grin of acknowledgement over her shoulder at Ratchet. She'd been a warrior goddess long before Wheelie had tagged her with that nickname, and was damn proud of it.  
  
"Where danger?" The transformed Autobot asked.  
  
"Not here, buddy," Arcee rested a hand on his roof.  
  
"Who fight? Still war?"  
  
"Still a war," Arcee sounded tired. "We're still fighting Megatron. He's here, on this world, and would destroy it for his own gains, and all the people on it. We need your help."  
  
"Smash Megatron." The 'bot had a real growl in his voice. "Smash Megatron. Me kill. Me no talk. Megatron say me no break. Torture for fun. Laugh me screams."  
  
Optimus dropped down onto one knee, and rested a hand on the 'bot's roof, as he addressed him. "Old friend, you will get your chance, I promise. We are setting up a trap for Megatron and we will need your help. However, you also need many more repairs, and we must keep you a secret until we spring the trap. Megatron will be far warier if he knows he would be facing you and your wrath, in addition to the rest of us."  
  
The 'bot was silent for a long, long moment. Then he said, "Arcee. Jazz. Ironhide. Sideswipe. Bee. Where? They okay?"  
  
"I'm right here, buddy," Arcee said, "I got an upgrade. And that's Ironhide. I think his grumble hasn't changed in twenty thousand years, the old grouch ..."  
  
Ironhide growled at her, and said something rude in Cybertronian that made Sam snicker.   
  
"You'll see Bumblebee later," Optimus promised, ignoring the exchange between Arcee and Ironhide behind him. "He's fine. He's still the heart of this team. Jazz ... Jazz died, but not in the battle we lost you in. He lived many more years, and Megatron killed him just last year. It was nearly instant, he did not suffer, and he died well in a battle which we won."  
  
"You Optimus!" The 'bot said, suddenly sounding a lot happier. "No recognize. Circuits slow. Feel stupid. You have new look! Like paint job flames. Worth it. Everyone get away. Worth it, Big Boss. Do again. Worth it. Me hurt, they live. Worth it!"  
  
Optimus's laugh was a low rumble of amusement. "I like the flames too, but let's hope you don't need to repeat this level of damage any time soon." He indicated the others with a sweep of his hand, "That's Ironhide, by the way, and Ratchet, and Inferno. You know all of us. You're among friends. You're safe."  
  
"Who they?"  
  
The 'bot was transformed, and could not point, but Sam apparently guessed that he was talking about the two humans because he introduced himself. "I'm Sam Witwicky. This is Mikaela Bane."  
  
"These two are friends as well, and can be trusted with our secrets. And, we need to keep you a secret for now." Optimus patted the car's quarter panel. "We're also worried about Mikaela's safety. Optimus could try to hurt her because he knows we would defend her. She is a friend. We may be accomplish both goals, protecting her and protecting you, by sending you with her. Will you do this? I know you would probably prefer to stay with us, and I would certainly like to see you here, among us, but ... the mission goals come first."  
  
"Keep girl safe. Smash Decepticons. Can do."  
  
"Thank you," Optimus replied. "Your willingness to fight, and get up and fight again, when others would have long quit, has always impressed me, old friend. Our goal will be to avoid a fight with Mikaela involved, but if Megatron brings the fight to us, we will defend her and you will be a very unpleasant surprise for the attackers."  
  
"Wait a second!" Sam tried to protest again.  
  
Mikaela interrupted him, "Sam, it's a good idea, actually. Optimus, I've been working on my Mustang every night anyway. Nobody would think twice about me putting him up on a lift and doing some repairs ..."  
  
"I wouldn't try putting him up on a lift," Ratchet interrupted, with a laugh. "What do you think he weighs, Optimus? Twenty tons?"  
  
"Mikaela, you will also want to be careful about the road surface under him. Do not try to drive on dirt with him in this form, and be wary of smaller bridges." Optimus stood back up. "I believe he is actually creating a fold in space/time to compress his body into that small of a space. He was an interstellar explorer and ..."  
  
"Here before," the 'bot said, in reaction to Optimus's comment about exploration. "Few millions years ago. Big organic monsters everywhere. Bigger me. Nothing like that now. Was here with explorer ship five hundred years ago too. Not as exciting. They were cool."  
  
Optimus acknowledged this with a quiet, "Yes, I know," before continuing to Mikaela, "... And he's got an old on-board warp engine. He was a starship when we first met. That engine is probably what he's using to create a little pocket dimension to hide some of his structure. This is possible to do, and I've seen it done before. The physics are ugly, but if he's doing what I believe him to be doing, his mass and weight are no different. He's just smaller."  
  
"Yeah," Arcee said, "The boss bot's right. He's just as heavy as he ever was."  
  
"He also won't be able to keep this up for long," Ratchet was scanning the 'bot with a handheld tool. "He's using tons of power to hold this form."  
  
"Hide. Get stronger. Weak, now. Easy to hurt. Hide. Get powerful. Smash Decepticons. Later. Hide now. Better form later." The Autobot sounded sensible when he said this - his initial fearful reaction was fading. "Not much Energon. This temporary. Too much power. Puny form."  
  
"Yeah, we know you're a badass when you're up to speed." Ratchet's comment made the others snicker, for reasons that Mikaela didn't entirely understand.  
  
"I believe we have a plan truly taking shape here," Optimus said, words which drew the others' attention to him. "Mikaela will take him home with her and we will send Arcee by every night after closing hours for Mikaela's shop, to continue repairing what his nanobots can not. Meanwhile, Wheelie feeds Starscream and Megatron information about our planned raids on Decepticon operations. When he is up to full fighting strength, we set a trap for Megatron - and Megatron, who will believe that he is attacking a small force of 'bots, finds the two of us waiting for him.  
  
"Smash Megatron!"  
  
"It will be very good to fight with you at my side again, old friend," Optimus sounded truly pleased by the idea. "Mikaela, what do you think?"  
  
"Sure." Mikaela shrugged. "Sounds like a plan to me."  
  
"Me like plan."  
  
Mikaela addressed the 'bot, patting the cracked windshield as she did so, "So, buddy, you're coming home with me. You got a name or should I just call you Big Boy?"  
  
The Autobot chuckled, sounding deeply amused. "Big Boy. Like that. Me Grimlock. Mission: Grimlock smash Megatron. Right boss 'bot?"  
  
Optimus said somberly, "Right, Grimlock. Protect Mikaela too. But I will be pleased to have you help us smash Megatron."  
  



	10. Chapter 10

 

"Waaaaahooooooo!" Wheelie charged up a dune so fast that he shot airborne at the top. His trajectory took him out over the lake - far out. Bumblebee calculated that he'd been going over a hundred miles an hour when he'd launched airborne. He transformed in mid air and executed several tumbling rolls, then hit the water with barely a splash.

 

Mechs couldn't really swim unless they had trapped air in their bodies, being far heavier than water, but they weren't damaged by it either. Bee, seated on a rock by the shore, waited patiently for Wheelie to appear at the water's edge. After five minutes, the little 'bot splashed out of the waves, and then zoomed off to get another long run at the sand dune. Bee couldn't help but feel a little happy, watching him. 

 

Bumblebee thought the young Decepticon had never had a chance to simply play before, because he had reacted with some confusion when Bumblebee had suggested he see how fast he could get going. What was the point, Wheelie had wondered?

 

He'd figured it out pretty quickly, though. The point was just to have fun. There was a sheer joy of pushing yourself to the absolute maximum level of your abilities, without the fear or rage of a battle. Just, simply, to see how fast you could really go.

 

"Watch this, Bee!" Wheelie shouted as he soared over Bee's head, going a good hundred and fifty miles an hour. The speed dopplered his voice. The splash he made this time was bigger.

 

I should find a race track for myself, Bee thought. However, he wasn't sure if even that would be safe. Someone could step out onto the track, or otherwise get in his way, or if he lost traction he could end up going off course and hitting something. He was not immune to the laws of physics.

 

He had not been able to run really flat out since arriving on this backwater world. Human roads had speed limits to accommodate for human reflexes and the limitations of human vehicles. He suspected that if he really went all out, and possibly morphed the Camero's design a bit for better aerodynamics, and improved the pattern of the tire treads, he could easily hit three or four hundred miles an hour. He hadn't tried, however; even if he could safely handle those speeds, humans would not be expecting a vehicle to move that fast and that alone could cause an accident.

 

At those speeds, if he wrecked, he'd take some damage. Maybe significant damage. That was part of the thrill, but the thrill was tempered by the knowledge that an accident at that speed involving an earth vehicle would disintegrate the earth vehicle and almost certainly kill anyone in it.

 

Earth vehicles were so fragile. Earth science was barely in its infancy and they had not yet perfected the art of making truly durable vehicles. Bumblebee could slam into the ground after a hot reentry from orbit without any significant damage, as long as he had time to fold himself into the appropriate mode. An earth vehicle could be badly damaged just by bumping into another car in a parking lot ...

 

However, since he'd expected to find an even lower level of technology on this world, perhaps he shouldn't be too criticial of their fragile craft. The Autobots had left Cybertron hundreds of years ago for this fight, and, based on even older surveys, had anticipated a world with no real science whatsoever - the last probe to pass Earth had reported that humans had mastered building with stone, knew some iron forging techniques, and were exploring their world using wooden boats pushed by wind. When Grimlock had been here, four million years before that, humans had barely come down out of the trees and Cybertron had already mastered starflight. Truly, this was a primitive world.

 

Instead of primitive apes beating on each other with steel swords, to their pleasure, they'd found humans had advanced well beyond what Ratchet snarkily termed "the advanced use of fire." While this was still a backwater world by any reasonable standard, Bee believed - and Optimus agreed with him - that humans had tremendous potential. They were beginning to explore quantum theory, and had already landed probes on neighboring planets and even put live humans on the world's single large moon. Bee was particularly impressed that they'd managed to get the live humans home safely from that airless moon; humans were frighteningly vulnerable to vacuum and radiation damage.

 

Even with human frailty factored in, he thought starflight was probably only a few human generations away for this world. They wouldn't need human help to master it, though they might end up sending robots of their own into deep space rather than themselves. Sometimes, he wondered if the misty and long-forgotten genesis of his own people had been an organic species that wanted to send itself to the stars, but couldn't, so it sent robotic proxies instead. Someone had created mechs, because they certainly hadn't evolved out of a swampy methane sea like organic life had ... but nobody knew who or why.

 

Of course, it might take them considerably less time than "generations" to master starflight if humans managed to get their hands on some examples of Cybertronian starship engines. He was pretty sure they had technology advanced enough to reverse engineer and then replicate a quantum field generator - and they could even understand the science behind it, once some of their brighter minds got a look at the equipment. A mech might be able to analyze the purpose of machinery in a human heartbeat, but human minds, though they had slower processing speeds, were certainly capable of comprehending all of the theories involved.

 

The fear of theft of technology was the reason why Optimus was not allowing the supply ship to land on Earth. There were countries that would kill for that sort of technology, quite literally, but humans didn't quite have intra-orbital flight mastered to the point where they could send an armada into space to capture a transport ship for dissection.

 

And as Optimus said, this world had great capacity for violence. Though all the 'bots agreed that humans had tremendous potential, they were still killing one another in a myriad of small wars and a few big ones. Even Cybertronian technology meant for peaceful use could be deadly, as history had proven time and again.

 

A quantum field generator could send a starship through a wormhole into another star system ... but that generator, if fired up on a planet, would generate a localized singularity that would eat a chunk of planet twenty miles across, and twenty miles deep. The twenty miles across was bad enough. It could destroy an entire city, millions of lives. Twenty miles deep, however, would punch a big hole through the continental crust and the resulting supervolcano could cause the extinction of the entire human race. That kind of planetary damage  had  killed another race that Cybertronians had been very close to.

 

There were humans crazy enough to do that. To  _ themselves _

 

So, no, they were not going to give humans starflight.

 

It did not escape Bee's sense of irony that his people had been fighting a cataclysmic battle across multiple galaxies and hundreds of planets. That war had started when humans were still grubbing in the dirt with sticks, and their greatest technological achievement was pottery. Mechs had destroyed worlds, including inhabited ones. And yet Autobots were passing judgment on humans and saying they were too violent.

 

_ No, _ he corrected himself.  _ We are saying 'You are too much like us and we will not help you kill yourselves.' _

 

His cell card pinged his processor, drawing attention to an incoming call and distracting him from his introspective thoughts. He identified the call as coming from Optimus, and answered it with a silent, internally directed, "Hey, Big Boss."

 

"Bumblebee." Optimus's words sounded as if they were coming from right beside him. The cellular card had been wired directly into the microphone on the left side of his head and the analog output could not be differentiated from actual noise in his environment. The geek bots were supposed to be working on a way to make it sound like he was not listening to Optimus's disembodied voice, because the sensory illusion was truly annoying. That, however, was a low priority project. "I wanted to tell you Hot Shot is up and running."

 

"Thank the Allspark!" He responded, fervently. Without being told, he knew that 'Hot Shot' was now the code name for Grimlock. Analysis of the big battle in Egypt had made it very clear that Soundwave had thoroughly hacked Earth’s communication network. The transport ship was supposed to do a visual check of the world's satellites when it arrived.

 

Optimus added, "However, he has significant processor damage."

 

"Crap, Optimus, I'm sorry. I should have looked harder. I'm sorry." Guilt threatened to overwhelm him - to shut down his own ability to think entirely. As Optimus’s scout, he had established Grimlock was dead, and had then slipped away from that blighted world without notice. Except that Grimlock had not been dead. He'd been alive. And in Megatron's hands. And if Bee had known ...

 

"We will talk about this later, Bumblebee," Optimus said. His voice was warm, however. It wasn't a rebuke; Optimus, most likely, was simply concerned with his state of mind. He genuinely meant that they would talk. This wasn't a bad thing - the boss 'bot had a remarkable way of making Bee feel better. "Bee, Wheelie's sensory array is not advanced enough to detect a transformed 'bot. Do bear that in mind when he is out with you. He may be a target for Decepticons vengeance for his change of sides."

 

Bee's amusement bumped up a notch. Optimus's statement, on the surface, was completely innocuous. However, it had also doubled as reminder that Wheelie would not be able to detect Grimlock, but they needed to make sure that Grimlock didn't transform around him.

 

"Hot Shot scanned an old junker of a car, by the way, that was parked on the base. It was the old Cadillac with the broken windows that belongs to the lady soldier ..."

 

There was no lady soldier in NEST, but they had their own resident Warrior Goddess, as Wheelie kept reminding them. Grimlock had scanned Mikaela's car ... Mikaela's car was definitely not a Cadillac. However, her Mustang was the only vehicle Bee had noticed with broken glass, so that had to be what Optimus was talking about. He was giving any listening Decepticons a red herring. And holy cow! If Grimlock folded space-time continuity any farther, he'd create a singularity! Fitting tens of tons of robot into a space the size of a '68 Mustang was a neat trick, particularly if he'd left space for passengers.

 

"I hope he upgraded the brakes," Bee said, with a bit of a laugh. "Those old Cadillacs weigh a ton, and don't stop very quick."

 

"Indeed," Optimus's amusement was audible. "Bumblebee, Ratchet has fabricated a replacement part for Wheelie's eye that we believe will work. You may return to the base at any time."

 

 

* * *

 

There was an old, primer-grey, hoodless Mustang parked inside the Autobot's hanger. It seemed to be Mikaela's junker, and Mikaela, indeed, was talking to Optimus. As he drew closer, the two glanced in his direction, and he suspected the conversation had abruptly changed from "classified" to "innocuous" for the benefit of small would-be Autobot ears.

 

Bee, after transforming, gave the vehicle a long, appraising look that included a detailed scan into the infrared spectrum. He was unsurprised when he detected a slight a heat signature that might be attributed to a warm clutch, but was about two inches to the side of where the clutch plate should have been -- most likely, a spark chamber. Using close-range Autobot frequencies, he asked Ratchet, "Does Hot Shot have a cell number yet?"

 

Ratchet, who was bent over a table and working on something with one third of Arcee, glanced over at him, then replied aloud, "No, not yet. His processor's pretty slagged. We didn't want to give him any new input to deal with until we're sure he's stable. But send Wheelie over here, and go on home with Mikaela and Sam. We'll keep an eye on the midget for awhile."

 

"Thank you," Bee said, with feeling, and, after evicting Wheelie from the passenger seat he transformed. To Wheelie, he said, "Go see Ratchet. He's got an optic sensor for you."

 

"Finally," the little 'bot said, with feeling. Then, showing a lot less gratitude than Bee would have expected, Wheelie snapped at Ratchet, "How long does it take to make an optic sensor, anyway? You'd think he could have gotten it done by yesterday. I'm half blind here."

 

Ratchet caught Wheelie up in one hand, and growled at him, "You were not my first priority last night. I haven't had a recharge in two days, and I just spent all morning making your optic sensor after spending twenty-four hours non stop on Hot Shot. If you whine, at all, I'll make you wait until tomorrow. The only reason I'm doing this now and not later is I do understand how uncomfortable it is to lose sensory input."

 

"Ratchet," Optimus said, mildly, from across the room, "Please do not break Wheelie. You would only need to fix him."

 

Ratchet dropped Wheelie on the tablet, and complained, "Boss Bot, he's ..."

 

"... unaware of the fact that you have gone two days without a recharge," Optimus cut in. Bee winced at his tone, and was extremely glad it wasn't directed his way. Optimus continued, in full lecture mode, "I believe you both owe each other an apology. Ratchet, you will treat Wheelie with complete respect and if I catch you picking him up against his will again you will face my anger. Is that clear? - And Wheelie, Ratchet is correct in that your optics were not the first priority. Hot Shot was very badly injured and required our immediate attention upon arrival. He could have died had we not stabilized him then and there. Please do not assume that we made you wait because we do not care."

 

Disgruntled, Wheelie grumbled, "Somebody could have said something to me."

 

"Wheelie." Optimus walked over, and then bent down so that he could be a little closer to the eighteen inch tall mech. "There will be times when you will not know everything that is going on with all 'bots. I would point out that we have treated you with nothing but respect ..."

 

"Bullshit. No, you haven't. Not all of you!" The 'bot suddenly transformed and zipped off the table. He bounced on landing, dodged Mikaela's attempt to grab him, and zoomed out the door.

 

"Should we chase him?" Bee said, very worried. Wheelie was fast enough that they'd lose track of him within moments if they didn't start a pursuit.

 

Optimus ran a hand over his face. "I suspect by that reaction he has some legitimate grievances, am I right? Perhaps he has not been treated with the respect he deserves as a sentient being? We have no grudge with him. He has hurt none of us."

 

"... he humped Mikaela's boot!" Sam protested.

 

Optimus turned to Sam and said, in a sharp tone of voice, "And you threw him out a window, with no provocation whatsoever, simply to be funny."

 

Wounded, Sam turned to Bumblebee. "You told Optimus?"

 

"Arcee did," Optimus clarified, reminding Sam that Bumblebee had not been the only Autobot at the college. He'd just been the most obvious. "Sam, Wheelie is very young and I suspect his knowledge of human culture and appropriate behavior is very incomplete. Bear in mind he was born a Decepticon and has only been exposed to their ways before he joined us. As he has joined us I expect all of you to treat him with as much respect as you would each other."

 

Optimus paused, then added dryly, "Perhaps more, given how some of you are apt to behave."

 

It was then that the battered mustang spoke up. "Hard to be good when everyone treat you bad."

 

"Grimlock, you above all others should know why we are reluctant to trust him," Arcee replied.

 

"Me, Grimlock, not understand." Grimlock sounded confused. "Me think Optimus make sense. Treat little Autobot well. Right thing to do."

 

"He was originally a Decepticon," Sam tried to explain.

 

Grimlock muttered, "Got that. Not that dumb."

 

It was amazing how well Optimus could sigh, given that he didn't actually breath. The sound drew their attention back to him. "Wheelie will be back, and I doubt he will do anything too terrible while he is running off his anger and hurt. Mikaela, I believe we are ready for you to take Grim home. Sam, Bee, please escort her to ensure that if Grimlock has any mechanical issues you can render assistance. And Grimlock - please allow Mikaela to do the driving. I do not believe we included traffic rules in the modules we provided you."

 

A few minutes later, Sam asked, "Bee, what's Optimus's deal with Wheelie?" as they negotiated heavy freeway traffic to Mikaela's inner-city auto shop. "I mean, I know he's protective of kids and everything, but Wheelie's not exactly a likely ally."

 

"He's just being Optimus." Bumblebee was cut off by man driving a large pickup, and said a rude word in Cybertronian. Then he continued, "It's the way Optimus is. If he wasn't lecturing us on what was right and just he wouldn't be Optimus. And - he is right. Wheelie has done nothing serious enough to warrant any sort of mistreatment."

 

"He's annoying." Sam sighed, and rested his hands lightly on the steering wheel. With most of the other 'bots he rode in the passenger seat, with a hologram "driving." Bee never seemed to mind anyone riding in the driver's seat.

 

"That's your biggest objection to him?" Bumblebee's tone was quiet, and thoughtful. "Some people would say the same of me. I can be hyperactive, and a little emotional at times. I know Ironhide grumbles about it. Sometimes he even complains about it to my face."

 

"You?" Sam blinked. He had a hard time picturing Bumblebee - funny, warm-hearted, slightly dorky Bee - as being annoying to anyone.

 

"We've known each other longer than human civilization has existed, Sam. Sometimes that means we get on each other's nerves." Bumblebee paused, then added, "And each of us would die for the others. That cannot be said for Wheelie. That is my objection to him."

 

 

* * *

 

Mikaela pushed up the garage door, and waved Grimlock through. Sam walked in behind them, and yanked the door back down.

 

"I'm afraid there's not enough room for you to really transform in here and move around," Mikaela patted Grimlock's driver's side door, "but it's the best I can do for now."

 

"Me see windows," the 'bot pointed out, in a sarcastic tone of voice that left Sam feeling a bit irritated at him. "No transform, someone see."

 

"That too," Mikaela conceded, sounding not nearly as put-out as Sam felt in reaction to that tone. She said, with a low chuckle, "Curtains on auto shop windows would look a bit silly, wouldn't they?"

 

"Pink ones, with lace." The 'bot suggested. "Girly windows. You want, yes?"

 

Mikaela laughed, even though Sam was wondering if the 'bot was serious or joking. It was very hard to tell. If he was joking, his delivery had been completely deadpan, and that could have very well been a serious suggestion that she might like pink lace windows on her shop. Had he had time to integrate information on human culture yet? 

 

Mikaela, however, seemed to think the 'bot had a sense of humor, because she said, "You and I are going to get along, I think, buddy. If you like pink, I could could always paint you that color ..."

 

"Grimlock break down if pink. No go anywhere. Embarrassed!" The 'bot was laughing, and Sam realized a bit belatedly that, despite his injuries, and difficulty communicating, he clearly  _ had  _ been joking.

 

"On a serious note, I would suggest that you go for red unless you have a strong objection to it. It's a good color for that make of car ... And 'sending you off for a paint job' will be a good excuse to explain your absence to my dad, too, when you're really at the base for work we can't get done here." Mikaela pointed up at the ceiling, "By the way, my apartment's upstairs. If my father's home, be careful. He doesn't like the idea of Autobots, and would probably have a cow if he knew you were here."

 

"Do I need to translate that idiom?" Sam asked. "The 'have a cow' bit ..."

 

"Have idioms. Bee wrote cultural module. Input okay. Language output circuits slagged." Grimlock sounded a bit sad. "Damnit."

 

Mikaela patted him again. "Don't worry, buddy, we can understand you okay."

 

"Not want make trouble. You and your dad. Me talk to him?" Grimlock sounded hopeful. Then his voice turned sad again. He said, "Or sound dumb. Maybe not good to talk. Bee, maybe. Or Sam?"

 

"No, no, nobody talks to my dad!" Mikaela threw her hands up in the air. "Bad idea! Bad, bad idea!"

 

"Me try to be helpful." He sounded a little irritated at her firm response. Sam took note of that; Grimlock wouldn't be the first Autobot he'd met who had to be handled with kid gloves and great deal of tact. Mikaela seemed oblivious to the implications of Grimlock's response, however, and to the slight undercurrent of wariness he'd detected from the other 'bots. Anyone who could get on Optimus Prime's nerves probably has some sort of issues ... nevermind the whole tortured-and-nearly-killed thing.

 

"Is your father home right now?" Sam said, a bit concerned about more than just very large Autobots in potentially bad moods. He'd met Mikaela's father a few times, and the word 'loser' had come to mind along with 'thug' and 'asshole.' How such a jerk had ended up with Mikaela for a daughter, he didn't know. He was a little bit scared of the guy, and more to the point, they didn't need a scene. Bumblebee simply would not remain concealed if he detected fear from his human friends, and Grimlock was a total unknown quantity who might be outright dangerous.

 

"I can guarantee he's out partying somewhere," Mikaela said, with a shrug. "Probably with money from the till, too, and not his own salary. - Grimlock, just for reference, I own the shop. My father works for me. So once he learns about you, if he has a problem with you being here, ultimately, it's his problem."

 

"Understood," Grimlock stated. Then, in a slightly apologetic tone of voice he added, "Need to recharge, now. Me lots repairs yet. Some do during recharge."

 

_ Maybe, _ Sam thought,  _ That bitchy response earlier is just because he's hurting and tired and needs to sleep. Maybe he'll be warm-fuzzy like Bee when he wakes up. _

 

And pigs might fly. The other 'bots had implied he'd physically fought with Optimus a few times. Nobody had said who won, either, he needed to ask Bumblebee about that ... but anyone who would fight with Optimus probably had a 'tude. Because, dude, it was Optimus. Sam had a hard time envisioning anyone being angry enough at Optimus to hit him.

 

Mikaela was saying, "Yeah, sure. If you need anything, honk your horn. I'll just tell my dad my car has a short. That would be totally believable." Mikaela patted Grimlock yet again, then headed outside - the stairs to the second floor apartment were on the side of the building and she had to walk from the front shop entrance, down an alley, and around to the back of the shop to reach them. He'd hated that layout from the first moment he had seen it. Mikaela was exposed and vulnerable outside the shop, and this was not a nice neighborhood.

 

Bumblebee was parked in the alley beside the building, a lighter colored shadow in the pool of darkness. He said quietly, without transforming, as they approached, "Optimus wants me to keep watch tonight. Grim's a heck of a fighter when he's up to speed, but right now he's pretty vulnerable."

 

"Thanks, Bee." Sam glanced shyly over at Mikaela, who had walked up to the car as if she expected to say goodnight to him by Bee's passenger door. He didn't particularly want to spend the night in the alley with 'Bee when his girlfriend had her own bed upstairs, and, well ... they were adults now, damnit, and he'd yet to have a chance to actually spend time alone with her that didn't involve, 'Ohmygod-my-mom-just-pulled-in!' or 'How much for the hotel room?' She'd only moved into the apartment upstairs a few weeks ago, after she'd managed to scrounge enough furniture for it to be livable. Before that, she'd lived with her aunt, who'd disliked him on general principles.

 

Other guys would just do it in the backseat of their car.  _ And I might not mind kissing her very thoroughly in front of the 'bots, and Bee may be the soul of discretion, but, umm, no. Not going to go all the way inside an Autobot. That is not happening. _

 

He finally summoned the nerve up to ask, "Umm, is your father really out drinking?"

 

"Probably, but no, you can't spend the night." Mikaela stood on her tiptoes to kiss him goodnight. His hands descended to her waist, and he didn't want to let go. However, she didn't sound nearly as disappointed as he felt when she pulled back and said sensibly, "We don't need the scene if he comes home early. You know Bee would come to your rescue."

 

At least she'd made it a long, lingering kiss. She pulled free after a minute, and waved to Bee, then hurried up the stairs.

 

"You know," Bee offered slowly, as he flung himself into the car's passenger seat, "I could play lookout ... but I am not really sure if you should push the point with her or not, Sam."

 

"I don't think she's ready," Sam sighed, as he tilted the passenger seat back with a quick swipe at the lever underneath it. "I mean, we have, you know, done that. But there's a difference between, well, that, you know, on the couch, when my dad's at work and my mom's at the gym, and me spending the night with Mikaela with wine and roses and stuff. One's hormones. The other's ... well, the other implies a lot more."

 

"I can't comment on the effect of hormones, but I can tell you that she is very scared of real commitment," Bee said, sounding wise. Well, he was wise. Maybe not Optimus-wise, but Sam had to acknowledge Bee was usually right about people. Bee continued, "She's had a lot of people disappoint her in her life and I believe she worries that you may be yet another person who breaks her heart. So she is guarding her feelings carefully, and not allowing herself to trust you fully ..."

 

"You're probably right," Sam ran a hand over his face. "Maybe I should just take the hormones out of it and give her some time. I'm a grownup. I can wait."

 

Bee's chuckle sounded amused, and it made Sam feel a little more irritation at the Autobot. "I suspect the romance aspect scares her far more than the sex, Sam. Because romance means love, and the only 'love' she's ever known before you met her was from her family, and I've observed enough of her family over the last year to know they're a bit lacking in that department. They may love her, but they are not showing it very well. You know that she had to hide the money she was saving up to start the shop, or her family would have taken it from her?"

 

"Yeah, I knew about that. My mom helped her open the bank account. The thing is, I'm not actually sure Mikaela loves me, though." It was a hard confession to make, but when Mikaela just brushed him off like she had, sometimes he wondered. He was trying so hard, and she kept a certain reserve about her no matter what he did. And she was so quick to believe the worst about him, as with Alice. She could have at least stayed downstairs a bit and made out with him tonight.

 

"Perhaps not," Bee said, sounding remarkably sensible. "I think, right now, she views you as someone who is safe and someone who she logically knows is not likely to hurt her. But she could, given time, and patience, and persistence on your part, come to truly love you. She is certainly not actively pushing you away. Is she worth the effort?"

 

"Oh. Yeah." Sam blinked as Bee's words registered. "You're right, I guess."

 

"I'm several tens of millennia old," the Autobot said, sounding unaccountably grumpy, "and I've had a few friends like her over the years. One day she's going to wake up and realize she couldn't imagine a world without you in it. That is when she'll fall in love with you. I just hope you'll have the patience to wait for that day."

 

"I can wait, I guess."

 

"Hormones and short lifespans and biological drives make things so difficult for you people." Bumblebee whuffed a sigh through his air conditioning vents. "I don't envy you the complexities of your relationships. My people have it easy, comparatively speaking - either you like someone, or you don't, and we have all the time in the universe to be patient with our friends."

 

"I'm not exactly issue-free myself," Sam hunched his shoulders and folded his arms. Sometimes, dealing with Mikaela made him feel completely out of his depth. Bee had a remarkable ability to see right through to the heart of an issue, but he wasn't sure he had the patience or wisdom to act on what Bee was saying. He was just a kid.

 

"So I've noticed," Bee said, a bit sharply. "Fortunately, I'm perfectly able to be patient with you, too, Sam Witwicky."

 

"Sorry," he mumbled, though he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for this time. Maybe, simply past transgressions that Bee hadn't completely forgotten. "I am a jerk sometimes, aren't I?"

 

"Yes," Bee said, "you are. As long as you're a jerk to me, I can take it. Just don't be a jerk to her. She can't. And particularly not right now - her father's being more difficult than usual."

 

"Yeah? Sounds like you've gotten the scoop." He perked up, interested in good gossip.

 

"And," the Bee continued, "you will need to talk to her if you want the scoop. It should be a good exercise in sensitivity and discretion."

 

"Damn," he slumped back into the seat.

 

Bee turned the radio on, probably a hint that Sam should try to get some sleep. He did have class tomorrow. And since this discussion was going nowhere, and Bee seemed to be in a cranky mood, he curled up in the seat and tried to nap, and tried not to dwell too much on the fact that he was getting advice on his love life from a millennia-old alien robot ... who was currently playing 'Too Much Love Will Kill You' by Queen.

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

Optimus had purposefully left a small crack open between the hangar doors. The rest of the team was recharging, and effectively deeply asleep, as it was late. Optimus had remained awake, however, anticipating Wheelie's return. As anticipated, sometime well after midnight, Wheelie peeked through the opening and then silently skated in.  
  
"Wheelie."  
  
The little mech froze in the middle of the floor, then cringed and stared in terror at Optimus. He was visibly shaking.  
  
They would disturb the others if they remained here, and Optimus wanted his team to have a good night's rest. They had another raid on a Decepticon base planned for the following day. Tired 'bots made mistakes, and he'd lost too many people over the years to completely dumb errors.  
  
"Come with me, please."  
  
Wheelie seemed about to bolt. He froze with one hand on the ground, one frightened instant from a panicky transformation and flight back into the night. If he ran again, Optimus wasn't sure he'd return a second time, so the Prime added, quietly, "I am not going to punish you."  
  
Thus reassured, Wheelie warily followed Optimus outside. Optimus led the way off the airfield and down towards the river. Wheelie followed, zipping along in his tiny vehicle mode so that he could keep up with Optimus's long strides.   
  
Wheelie did not often transform into alt mode, perhaps because his vision was a bit limited when he did. The only time that Optimus saw him on four wheels was when he needed speed.  
  
Optimus had seen Wheelie's specs and had requested Ratchet make a few upgrades. Notably, he only had the optics that became his headlights in alt mode - which meant he had a very restricted and rigid field of vision. Aside from fixing his burnt-out eye, Optimus wanted to have a few more cameras added to the little bot's vehicle mode so he could actually see 360 degrees in all directions. Wheelie's design was rather standard for a sparkling, but it had appeared that the Decepticons had cut quite a few cost corners when creating him and had left out many features that most Autobots would include for their children.  
  
Optimus stopped when they were a long way from the lights of the base, and only silence surrounded them. Then he lowered himself to the ground, and sat on the earth, and asked, "Why did you run?"  
  
"I didn't go back to the Decepticons! I didn't!" Wheelie stood out of grabbing distance, fear evident in his voice and every line of his small body, despite Optimus’s assurance that he did not intend to punish him.  
  
"I imagine you did not," Optimus said, mildly. "Soundwave believes you are spying on us. He would not react well if you were to abandon that assignment, and you are well aware of that. I felt no concern that you might return to the Decepticons this night."  
  
He’d learned that Wheelie had been under Soundwave’s command, though he was thankfully not quantum bound to the Decepticon spymaster. Soundwave did not bond to mecha who were not capable of formidable levels of self defense, likely because it was physically damaging and painful to the host to lose a symbiont. On the other hand, it said something about Wheelie’s overall intelligence and abilities that Soundwave had dispatched Wheelie to spy on Mikaela. Soundwave didn’t send mecha into the field on mission-critical assignments if he didn’t expect them to succeed.  
  
Optimus suspected Soundwave had been grooming Wheelie. After some substantial upgrades and training, the youngling would have been forcibly hacked and his spark quantum bound to the host. The Prime was very glad they’d saved the bright young mech from that fate.  
  
Wheelie said savagely, "I was tempted to go back, though. I was mad. I'm not the enemy and they're treating me like I am and it's not fair. Soundwave would’ve punished me, sure, but life on the Nemesis wasn’t bad. At least I had friends. I’m only here because I believe in you, Prime, and what you’re fighting for. Megatron’s evil. He's gotta be stopped."  
  
"I do not blame you for your anger." Optimus held a hand out, and Wheelie reluctantly stepped into the middle of it. Optimus lifted the little 'bot up to his knee, and Wheelie stood there, arms folded and a sullen look on his face. Gently, Optimus said, "Wheelie, you have not been dealt an easy hand in life."  
  
"Yeah," Wheelie agreed, bitterly. "Ain't that the truth."  
  
Optimus nodded gravely. He continued in a sympathetic tone of voice, "I know my soldiers distrust and dislike you because you were created a Decepticon. They treat you badly, without even realizing it. It hurts, because you do mean well?"  
  
Wheelie said, angrily, "Yeah, and how do you know I mean it?"  
  
"You would not be this angry and hurt if you did not truly mean to join us. Be that as it may, youngling, you must learn to control your temper. My soldiers have very good reasons for their suspicions. You must understand that there was a young Decepticon I believed would make a good addition to my personal team. We were badly betrayed by him. Not all of my mecha are eager to give another a chance,  and your fury and rage will only serve to make them more cautious of your motives."  
  
"Thanks for confirming I’m never going to fit in here," Wheelie said, grimly. "Nobody likes me an’ I’ll never have any friends. At least I know the score."  
  
Optimus asked, "Do you discount me as a potential friend?"  
  
"A ... friend?" Wheelie stared at Optimus, his one good eye irising wide open with incredulous disbelief. The suggestion clearly shocked him to his core. "You? But ... you're the leader of all the Autobots. You’re the Prime. You ... but why me?"  
  
"I will always be your leader first," Optimus said, voice firming. "My orders must be followed, and sometimes I am required to make hard, ugly choices for the greater good. I have sent soldiers I considered friends to certain death. However, I would be proud to call you my friend."  
  
"Why?" Wheelie's voice was barely a whisper. "Why would you ... but ... but I haven't earned this."  
  
"You do not need to earn my friendship, little one," Optimus said, with a low chuckle. "You simply need to be yourself, and being yourself is a remarkable thing. You are a tiny and fragile Decepticon who has the courage and honor needed to stand apart and say, 'this is wrong' and 'I will follow another path' despite the scorn of my people."  
  
Wheelie straightened up a bit at Optimus's praise. Then he sagged again, visibly so, and protested, "But you said you don't trust me."  
  
"Perhaps," Optimus said slowly, "I should begin to. I am remembering that someone trusted me once, a very long time ago, when he had no reason to. He acted on faith, not on logic, and I would like to think I have made him proud, small though my victories have been of late."  
  
Wheelie blinked. "You, sir?"  
  
"Yes." Optimus's gaze was distant, focused on a point far beyond the little mech's head. Humanity had barely discovered fire when he had been simply Orion Pax. Then, he had never even imagined he would be trusted with a Matrix of Leadership, would eventually become a Prime, and then the only Prime as the others died in battle or of misfortune and their matrixes were lost with them. This was not a story he wanted to share with the little 'bot, as it was personally painful - much as, sometimes, he wished he could confide in someone.  
  
Wheelie was definitely not a good choice for a confidant, however much that Optimus personally liked him.  
  
Finally, he said, "Youngling, I have a task for you."  
  
"Yes?" Wheelie's eyes shone in the starlight as he regarded Optimus with eager anticipation. "What? What would you have me do, boss?"  
  
Optimus hesitated. He could be making a very bad error in judgment. He could also be leading this bright, promising, youngling to his death. Slowly, Optimus finally said, "I want you to come with me on the raid tonight."  
  
Wheelie flinched, not entirely to Optimus's surprise. He said quietly, "Oh."  
  
"You have an advantage in your small size that we do not. While we engage the enemy, I wish for you to slip into their base and see if you can learn any interesting intelligence. Their leaders may not guard their tongues in the midst of a fight, and their panic will work to our advantage. I know you have some skills at lock picking, as well. Will you do this for me?"  
  
He saw indecision in the little 'bot's small frame. On one hand, Wheelie was likely terrified of entering into the middle of a battle - despite his enthusiastic reaction a few days earlier to attacking Megatron, Optimus knew that Wheelie had a powerful interest in his own self preservation. On the other hand, it was Optimus asking, and Wheelie's desire to please was warring with his fear.  
  
This is not that dangerous of a mission, Optimus thought, with your body-type, and with the horde of small, nameless, Decepticons we expect at the base, they may not even notice you. You may be able to run in and out, unnoticed, during the chaos of a battle. Make the right choice, my friend ...  
  
Wheelie nodded once, decisively. "I'll do it."  
  
"Good." Optimus was a bit relieved. If Wheelie had said no, he would have felt far more suspicion of the 'bot's motives. And they did need more intel - Wheelie could very well turn up something interesting. "And now I believe we should both return to the hanger for a recharge. It is late, and we will have a long day tomorrow."  
  


* * *

  
  
Amp was closely watched by Ohm as he bit into the jelly. The mechling shuttered his optics, let out an appreciative moan, and swallowed slowly. Ohm grinned and bounced up and down. //Good? Good?// He signed, and then when he realized that Amp couldn’t see him, he impatiently tugged at Amp’s arm.   
  
The mechling opened his optical shutters, realized Ohm was asking him a question, swallowed again to clear his intake, and then said, “It’s very good, Ohm. Fang -- thank you. I haven’t had a jelly in eons. They’ve gotten so expensive.”  
  
Fang licked solidified energon from his claws -- he’d torn his own jelly into pieces to make it last longer -- and then said, “I thought you might enjoy it.”  
  
The three of them -- Ohm, Amp, and Deathwheels -- were alone with him in his quarters. His quarters were not large; Fang was not a large mech and while the Nemesis was a sizable ship, space was still at a premium. He was lucky to have the rank to rate private quarters at all -- up until very recently, he’d bunked in the barracks in the bowels of the ship. He’d rarely gotten a solid unbroken defrag there, as he'd never been able to fully relax and completely power down. Recharging was dangerous when you were small and weak and surrounded by glitched, virus-addled shock troopers.   
  
Death sat on the Fang’s berth, which was the only space big enough for him to sit. He’d finished his jelly in two bites, and was also licking his fingers. “Thank you, boss,” he said, gravely.  
  
“Mmm. You three did well.” Fang ignored a shooting pain in his hip to hop up and sit next to his chief minion.   
  
“I still don’t understand the point, though.” Deathwheels murmured. “I did as you asked ... but why?”  
  
Fangface hesitated. “Because I want to end this war.”  
  
“It makes no sense. I’m sure it makes sense to you -- I’m just trying to understand.” Deathwheels frowned, and glanced at the two junior mecha. “Perhaps we should have this conversation in private.”  
  
“I get it,” Amp said, brightly.  
  
Fang twisted to view the mechling, who sat cross-legged on a storage cabinet. “What do you think my point was, Amp?”  
  
Amp grinned. “Big mech with a bad attitude about Megatron. You’re working towards a coup.”  
  
Death hissed. “Shhh! Do not say that, Amp.”   
  
Fang waved a hand absently. “It’s okay, the room’s shielded.”  
  
“And if he gets hacked?!”  
  
“If he gets hacked, it’ll be by someone I have blackmail on. I’ve got ample dirt on all the other officers in this army, as they likely do on me. Blackmail is the grease that keeps the Decepticon army running. Amp, what do you think I’m planning?”  
  
“Conspiracy. Grimlock and Optimus together are strong enough to take down Megatron. Meanwhile, you’re building up Starscream’s strength. He can take out Soundwave ...” Amp shuddered delicately, “... and then you and Thundercracker can take out Starscream. That’s why you were talking to Thundercracker yesterday, right?”  
  
Fang sighed, and shook his head. “Nothing so ambitious, Amp. The best plans are simple ones. The Autobots cannot win this war ... but will never surrender so long as Megatron leads. Eventually, Megatron will defeat them utterly. My goal? Keep the Autobots functional as a fighting force until I can ... deal ... with Megatron. Then, the Decepticons can negotiate for Autobot surrender with the Autobots in a position of relative strength.”  
  
Deathwheels blinked. “I assumed you were going to conspire with the Autobots to take out Megatron, too. You know them.”  
  
Fangface snorted. “I may know them, but they know _me_ as a traitor. They’d hardly be willing to conspire with me now.”  
  
“Optimus Prime is known for his forgiveness.”  
  
“Oh, to a point.” Fang waved a hand carelessly about. “Sure. But as far as they know, I betrayed them utterly, for purely selfish reasons. They can’t forgive that. And Prime won’t. Not ever. Because of that, it can’t be me that leads this parade of glitchwits to victory -- Prime wouldn’t surrender to me any more than he would to Megatron.”  
  
“You think he’d surrender to the other commanders?”   
  
“Probably not to Soundwave. Soundwave has a long list of war crimes on his resume.” Fang snorted. “But Starscream? Starscream’s a scheming, dangerous, arrogant, vain and selfish sociopath, but he’s not actually evil, and he can be trusted to keep his word. Yeah -- if we can get Starscream into power, and then get you, my secret brainiac friend, working on tactics,” Fang nodded to Deathwheels, “I think we can put the Autobots into checkmate. And with Starscream in command ... Optimus would be willing to negotiate for surrender. If the Autobots aren’t defeated utterly, they can negotiate for good terms for the surrender, and that gives us the best possible outcome, with the fewest lives lost and the least number of ugly battles. That’s my goal.   
  
“I’m looking at the end game thousands of vorns down the road -- I want as many survivors, sane survivors, as possible, to rebuild our population. The Matrix was destroyed, but it can be rebuilt. We can thrive as a people again. But to do that, we need every last person I can save, because our numbers are so low that they are very close to the point of no return.”  
  
Amp said slowly, “So you don’t want to lead?”  
  
The Matrix stirred in his chest. It was unhappy with the plan. It thought Fang should lead.  
  
He shook his head. “It’s not a matter of desire. It’s a matter of pragmatism. Optimus won’t deal with me. He can’t. I’ve betrayed him personally; he cannot trust me now. Starscream ... for all his flaws, Starscream actually can be trusted to keep to the letter and the spirit of a treaty. He also doesn’t want to see our people extinct any more than I do. It’s why I work for him, even if I hate him.”  
  
“What did he do to you, to make you hate him so much?” Amp asked, clearly confused. “You said you had a sparkling ...”  
  
Fang huffed a sigh. “I did. It was a few thousand years ago. I got too attached to one of my staff ... and then I was critically injured in battle. The Autobots rescued me, repaired me, tried to make me one of their own. Much to their later regret, as it turned out, because witness exhibit A: Captain Fangface, back in the Decepticon fold. However, while I was with the Autobots, Starscream ... let Soundwave have many of my minicons. Including the one who I was mentoring as my heir.”  
  
“Couldn’t you claim him back?” Amp said.  
  
Fangface raised a shoulder in half a shrug. “I tried. He didn’t want to return to me. Said I was a useless fragger who hadn’t protected him when he needed it. It’s probably true. I haven’t seen him around recently -- I expect he died. Soundwave doesn't take very good care of the mecha he isn't bonded to.”

Fang kept his field on a very short leash. He didn't want anyone to know how violently angry thinking about it too much made him. He tried not to think about his sparkling, even though his love for that sparkling had started _everything_ and made him what he was now. Losing Wheelie had taught him in the most painful way possible that _minicons were not disposable_. Because he treated his minicons as if they were valuable and valued, they worked harder for him than for anyone else. His small army of loyal, skilled, well trained minicons made him an effective officer with a strikingly notable recent history of successes, and Starscream had noticed and had elevated him up in rank.

It was all due to the lessons Wheelie had taught him.

And if he thought too much about Wheelie, he'd glitch out and go try to murder a seeker and a spymaster, in that order. He couldn't afford to lose his cool. Not yet. Though someday, he did plan to settle that score.  
  
Amp frowned. “But you can’t protect everyone. Particularly against Soundwave.”  
  
“Ain’t that the truth,” Deathwheels rumbled. His armor had lifted up, making him look even bigger.  
  
“No, I can’t.” Fangface said, soberly. “I can’t always protect you. But I can try. Sometimes that’s not enough, and I fail, and my minicons die, but I do try.”  
  
Ohm, who had been sitting beside Fang’s knee, crawled into his lap. Ohm signed, //Fang, good.//  
  
“I try.” He stroked Ohm’s helm. “But I can’t be your mentor, even though I suspect that’s what you’re looking for. Not again.”  
  
Amp reached out and claimed Ohm back. “I’ll take care of him, don’t worry, Fang. He is _really_ young.”  
  
Ohm, with a confused meep, let himself be pulled into Amp’s arms.   
  
“Thank you, Amplitude.” Fang gripped the mechling’s slender arm in a gentle grasp. “He does need someone to care for him. You can help me with his upgrades when I find the parts for a more advanced frame.”  
  
“I’d ... I’d like to learn more about repairs.”  
  
“You have the processor for it.” Fang said, absently. Then, perking up a bit because of the change in subject, he added, “When this war is over, you’ll all need to find actual occupations that don’t involve shooting things. There will be a ton of work for mecha who can do repairs, mods, and frame engineering. I’m trying to teach you what I can, because it will make the transition easier, and you'll have an advantage over the mecha who don't know anything but fight. I’m self taught myself, though, so what I can teach you has limits. Tcha! Maybe part of those peace terms would be an apprenticeship for you and some of the other bright younglings with the Autobot medical staff.”  
  
Amp stared at Fang with wide eyes. “I thought you said they didn’t like you.”  
  
Fang shrugged. “So? I can’t blame them for that. They think I betrayed them. And -- and they do have the best medics. Ratchet is a genius.”  
  
“Ratchet is supposed to be scary.”  
  
“Oh, he is. He can be truly terrifying when he’s on a rampage.” Fangface bared teeth in an appreciative grin. He'd always liked Ratchet, whose gruff kindness and sarcastic bluster had been less frightening than the truly alien social scene among the rest of the Autobots. “He’s the reason I’m alive now, and I haven’t forgotten that.”  
  
“Oh.” Amp said, sounding somewhat dubious.  
  
“Trust me, you have a choice between working with Ratchet and working with Hook? Take Ratchet. Hook’s a virus-addled sadistic slagger.”   
  
The conversation moved on to lighter topics after that, and then, after a bit, the minicons departed Fang’s quarters for a late evening shift.   
  
Death said softly, “Is telling them so much wise?”  
  
“They won’t blab.” Fang was not worried. The two minicons were loyal.  
  
“They can be hacked.” Deathwheels pointed out, again.   
  
Fang shrugged. “I know of at least three separate active conspiracies that Starscream has going to take out Megatron, and one of them is serious enough to have a chance of succeeding. I’m going to ... help ... with that one, when the time comes. Soundwave, now, Soundwave is siphoning off energon for some project of his own, and cooking the books ...”  
  
“He is?” Deathwheels, a born data analyst, looked startled. “Energon mining isn’t even his area of control. He’s just head of intelligence, and that’s about it.”  
  
“Mining is one of my areas, and I’ve known about it for vorns upon vorns.” Fang bared his teeth. “If you’d died, I would have been sorely tempted to take his tentacled aft down.”  
  
“What’s he using the energon for?”  
  
“Dunno, but he’s skimming off a lot. At least half of Nieryl Six’s production went to whatever project he’s got going. I think it’s something he’s up to with Shockwave, quite honestly, and Starscream might be in on it too, but I've traced the energon diversion directly to Soundwave. Err -- be my guest if you want to dig a bit and find out more. I still don't know _what_ he's doing with it. Feeding neutrals or building an army of his own? Soundwave's such an enigma, I can't predict what he's up to or going to do half the time.”   
  
“I will look into it.” Deathwheels looked thoughtful. “Fang, is this really a good idea? Sometimes, I think we’d do well to just leave this all behind.”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“I believe we can.” Deathwheels, still seated on Fang's berth, leaned back against the wall, and eyed Fang sideways for a long moment. “I’ve come up with some plans. We could commandeer a shuttle, take all the minicons, and just go. We might not even have to hijack the shuttle -- Blast Off's loyalty is questionable, at best. Energon wouldn’t be an issue; the minicons are miners. You’re enough of a medic to fix any minor repairs, and ...”  
  
“Death, I can’t.” Fang said, though his minion’s suggestion was far more tempting than Thundercracker’s had been simply by virtue of being more likely to succeed. “I ... I just can’t.”  
  
“Tell me why. You’ve zero loyalty to the commanders.”  
  
Fangface inclined his head in acknowledgement of that. “Death, let’s just say I got religion recently.”  
  
“What?” Deathwheels blinked. Fang was about the closest thing to an atheist that a Cybertronian could be.   
  
Fang closed his optics, and concentrated. The Matrix approved of his next action, and willingly disengaged. He felt weirdly ... empty ... without the memories of scores of Primes before him, connected to his processor, and without the nagging presence of the artificially intelligent artifact. The Matrix flowed down his arms in the form of sand, rippling and twisting like a tide of nanytes.  
  
Deathwheels jerked back, startled.   
  
The Matrix formed itself in Fang’s outstretched hands. He held it, reverently, gently, for a long moment. Deathwheels stared down at the artifact, then slowly lifted his gaze to Fang’s expressive features.  
  
“Primus.”  
  
“Quite literally,” Fang agreed. There was a faint bit of dust on the Matrix. He blew the dust away.  
  
Deathwheels rose, and then to Fang’s shock, dropped to his knees. “Sir. I ... I don’t ... how?”  
  
“Oh, get up.” Fang stood up himself, “nothing’s changed, except that I know own a Flash Drive of Primus. It’s useful, but my attitude about bowing and scraping hasn’t changed. I can kick your aft if you annoy me, and I find the whole groveling-at-my-feet thing annoying. So don’t do it.”  
  
Deathwheels scrambled back to his feet. His optics were a bit bright, and his fans had kicked on. If Fang didn’t know better, it would be easy to conclude that his minion had an authority kink. It was a lot more likely that Death had just put his tactical processor into overdrive. Sure enough, Death said, “You can’t tell anyone.”   
  
“Ya think?” Fang let the Matrix flow back through the gaps in his armor. As quick as it had appeared, it vanished.  
  
“... Optimus Prime would listen to you.”  
  
“He certainly didn’t listen to the Fallen.”  
  
“Yes, but you’re no Fallen.” Deathwheels caught Fang’s hands in his much larger grip, startling Fangface. “Fang, thank you for trusting me with this. Primus, I’d wondered why you were acting so odd. Now I know. Now I know you have the wisdom of the Primes behind you. You’re so young ... it must be so hard for you to be alone with this ... I will help you, of course I will ...”  
  
“Of course you will,” Fang echoed.   
  
Deathwheels started to reach out to touch Fang on the arm, then froze. Though Fang did not particularly like physical contact, Death had never hesitated to touch him before. Fang said, firmly, “Nothing has changed, Deathwheels. I showed you the Matrix because I trust you and consider you my best friend.”   
  
Deathwheels huffed a sigh. “Of course.” And he completed the gesture, resting a hand on Fang’s shoulder. “You have my allegiance, Fang, and ... anything else.”  
  
Death’s tone was odd. His optics were still very bright.   
  
Death added, “If I’d known ... I wish you’d trusted me with this earlier.”  
  
“Haven’t had it all that long. Just since Egypt.”   
  
“Oh.” Deathwheels stroked his hand down Fang’s arm. Fang tensed.   
  
“Sorry,” Death said.  
  
“No, it’s okay.” Fang said, looking up at Deathwheels. Death was so loyal to him. He reigned in the fear in his field, but not fast enough. Death had felt it.   
  
“Stop that.” Deathwheels rested both hands on Fang’s shoulders, a bit firmer than before. “I am your friend, as you said.”  
  
Fangface forced his field under control. “My apologies, Deathwheels. I have had some very bad experiences in my life. Fear is a reflex which I have never quite mastered.”   
  
“Not the fear.” Death looked briefly confused. “I get that. We can work on that. The ... the thing you do with your field. I’ve never met a mech who can fake emotions, or lack of emotions, like you can. You don’t need to fake anything around me. I’m your friend, you say you trust me, but you don’t. You always hide what you’re feeling.”  
  
“Oh.” He blinked. “I’m ... I’m sorry.”  
  
Death pulled him into a hug, much to his shock. It was tight and warm, and lingered, and he didn’t push away. He was unsure if he wanted to shove free or not. It had been a long time since anyone had hugged him. Sometimes he hugged others, but nobody hugged _him_.  
  
When he didn’t immediately recoil, Deathwheels murmured softly, and held him even tighter. Fang shuttered his optics, and decided this was okay. He had been so long since he’d trusted another enough to relax into their arms. The flow of air from Deathwheels’ vents was warm against his plating, and the mech’s sparkfield was steady and calm.   
  
It felt good to unleash his own field, as well. He always kept his true feelings tightly wrapped up and hidden away; for once, prompted by Deathwheels’ objection to that tight control, he let his own confusion and fear and exhaustion out. He knew he could rely on the bigger mech. Death had proven himself over and over again.   
  
“Shh.” Deathwheels sat down on the edge of Fang’s berth without ever letting go of Fang. This put his optic level a few feet above Fang’s head. Despite the fact that Fang hadn’t actually said anything, Deathwheels repeated, “Shh, Fang. It’s going to be okay. You can trust me to have your back. We’re going to see this thing out until the end.”  
  
The Matrix was uneasy, for reasons Fang didn’t fully understand. He trusted Deathwheels. The hug felt good, he told himself. Deathwheels had earned his trust.  
  
Death’s field subtly changed. Desire.  
  
Startled, Fang stiffened, and tried to push away, even as Deathwheels ran a tentative finger down Fang’s backstruts in a way that was unmistakably not platonic. Death did not let go, but Fang had not pushed very hard.  
  
Fangface didn’t want to offend his minion. Slaggitall, the mech knew his biggest secret now, too. He couldn’t risk losing Deathwheel’s loyalty -- and he didn’t want to lose his friendship! He’d never meant to lead Death on, however, and he feared he had by not keeping his distance. He dithered uneasily, physically motionless even as his mind worked rapidly.   
  
Death’s finger slipped beneath a gap in his armor. Then, suddenly, Death released him. “You’re doing it again.” There was a sharpness to Death’s words.  
  
“What?”  
  
“That thing you do with your field.” Deathwheels sounded disappointed, and a bit irritated. His minion snapped, “I take it you’re repulsed by me. Is that what you’re hiding?”  
  
“No!” Fang couldn’t help but feel guilty. Deathwheels truly did care for him, and he thought Fang had just rejected him. He let go of his field, let Death feel the fear and guilt and anxiety.  
  
Deathwheels blinked.  
  
“I’ve never ...” Fangface shook his head. In a softer voice, he said, “I’ve never interfaced.”  
  
“... What?” Deathwheels was genuinely surprised, to judge by the shock in his field. “Oh. But how ... but everyone interfaces!”  
  
“I don’t.” Fang chewed on a claw for a second. Somehow, he’d ended up across his quarters from Deathwheels. “Other than medical scans ...” Far too many medical scans! “... I’ve never.”  
  
Deathwheels said quietly, “I’m sorry. I’ll go now.”  
  
“No,” Fang said, impulsively. “I’m not ... I’m not ready for that step, and it’s totally me, not anything to do with you, but I do like you and I need you, and maybe you could stay for a bit?”

He was babbling. Jazz had once teased him, in better times, long ago, that he could babble better than Bluestreak when he was upset.  
  
Deathwheel’s mouth curved up into a smile. “Would you care to watch a movie, then?”  
  
That sounded fantastically normal, and he smiled back in relief.   
  
After the movie was started, Deathwheels sat back down on the berth. Fang hesitated for a very long moment, so long that it became awkward, before he finally forced himself to sit down next to Deathwheels. Death was his friend, and he’d made his friend feel awkward. He needed to make it better.

Knowing Deathwheels would like it, and would be reassured by it, he snuggled up to Death’s large chassis and rested his head on Deathwheel’s chest.   
  
The much larger mech made a surprised noise, and for a moment, Fang thought he’d made a mistake. However, Death’s sparkfield was welcoming, affectionate, and the sense of hurt feelings had disappeared entirely from it. He didn’t have to fake the relief in his own. Deathwheels put an arm around Fang, and leaned back against the wall, and together, they watched the movie. 


End file.
